As some of you pointed out, there is little to watch on television right now so I have resorted to my oldest friend and pleasure — reading. I finished Hemingway’s The Garden of Eden — one of his more demented relationships in text. Followed that with a quick read of Margaret Atwood’s The Penelopiad which is lovely and strange and gave me a line I love almost as much as Faulkner’s “Caddy smells like trees” when Penelope exclaims “But when I try to scream, I sound like an owl.” Atwood is one of my favorites; but there is a piece of ice at the center of her writing that seems like reason but maybe is something much more.
Otherwise, I have done little else except hang out with Frank while he is here studying for his orals (tomorrow). Once he leaves, I feel like part of Florence will go with him. The occasional Italian expression, the love for real mozzarella and pasta, talking about our favorite city — all of these ties will unravel when he leaves and then I’ll truly be here. Or here for awhile anyway. So I find sleep is what is wrapping me during most of my time. Could I still be exhausted from the past few months; or is this really just the effect of sticky-humid-heat of life here? Who knows. But when I dream, it is of the wilderness. It is everything that surrounds me now. I thought it would be the city of stone — my subconscious still saying goodbye. Yet my sleeping self is maybe trying to process the here and now—and the owls that speak to me in the dark.