They are everywhere. I have been fighting them for years, starting four years back when I first realized the dangers of these fiends. Perhaps that makes me an expert, perhaps not, but every day, before I rise, my resolute chant is always the same: they must not get me. I have tried to warn the world of their dangers, on how to avoid their sweet lure, but few believe and even fewer practice vigilance. But I will continue to fight for my sake, and for others. Please, I implore, be vigilant and do not allow them to fool you. I share with you a few of my close encounters so that you might learn, and judge for yourself the dangers these beasts present.
I. Parco Savello
I scour my surroundings, in a new city, with new scents and sounds that mask their characteristic songs and clicks. There, one hidden behind the tangled green leaves of the orange tree, whose fruits were shed many months ago. And there, one above the ledge, gazing out at the smoky Roman air that blurs the Altar of the Nation. I duck, I weave, I crunch over grey rockbeds, to throw them off my scent. Duck, weave, repeat. For now, I have succeeded, but the danger is eminent. Today, a good day: my maneuvers have allowed me to escape them unscathed.
II. Ara Pacis Augustae
I stand by the alien encased in a blood-red box, relaxed, distracted by the musical splashing of the fountain, a sweet G Major tune almost ruining all. From my left, the first one attacks in a flash! But years of practice pay off as I veer left, dodging the first, only to find a second waiting for me! I duck again, but too slow this time! I analyze the damage: only a graze, as far as I can tell, but the full effect will take a few days to reveal itself. They have become wily, working in collusion to outsmart and outmaneuver me. For now, I am annoyed, frustrated, how did I not see this coming? This new strategy changes everything, my cloaking strategy needs three steps, duck, weave, duck, repeat. Today’s mishap opens my eyes to their new strategies, and I too must develop new avenues of evasion.
III. Vatican
En route to the St. Peter’s basilica and square, Lisa decides on a detour. Gather around, stand there, she asks. I analyze the surroundings, damn, this is the worst situation. We are in open ground—far ahead is the foreboding grey of the Vatican, and in the distance behind us is the brick layered cake of Castel Sant’Angelo. The closest buildings are a distant hundred meter sprint away, two nondescript grey blocks that flank Via della Conciliazione. My senses sharpen, visual acuity improves, as I scan the surroundings despite the flashes of glare that twinkle on and off, on and off. I persist, keeping my eyes open at all costs, ignoring the prickling sweat, the dance of motorists and pedestrians, the exhaust particles tickling my throat, all threatening to break my concentration. A new situation calls for quick thinking; I use the only resource available—I disappear behind the creamy mocha of Matt(hew)’s shirt. A second later, I scan again, duck, weave, duck, mocha. But my success is questionable, did it get me?
They must not get me. They come in all shapes and colors, but always with a single eye, and occasionally emitting a blinding white light. If you see one, duck, weave, duck, no matter how strong the lure.
cw #6
Showing posts with label CR. Show all posts
Showing posts with label CR. Show all posts
9.14.2007
9.09.2007
The Sum of Reals Equals a Non-Real?
How do we perceive and remember reality? Is reality the recording of life by the flow of ions in our brains, each separated as a neat package? Or do these singular realities mix, to become reshaped into something new, a hallucination?
Tonight, Rome is stripped of its tourists, its erratic white taxis and heat, leaving behind trees napping under the moonlight and the wanderer alone to explore. The Forum is covered by a blanket of darkness, the ancient marble and bricks relaxed after a tense day under the glare of sunlight. As I walk by Julius Caesar, he points to the distance, where a strange shape catches my eye—I am at a loss for what its proper name is, but I recognize it immediately as the missing curl from violin faces. Naturally, I gravitate towards the sight; my eyes follow the strings downwards—six people are being strapped into harnesses, a few have instruments in their hands but in the darkness, it is difficult to see who has what. Taking their lead, I too allow the tension out of my shoulders, and focus on the murmur of the leaves and the air sweetened by the specks of history trapped within its whorls. Breath in, breath out, my rhythm slows. A note is struck, and the mobile rises, dangling precariously from a cartoonish orange crane, a sight visualized but unprocessed by my brain—both halves protesting against the impossibility and impracticality, attempting to reconcile it with the visual input. The barely perceptible harmony of Mozart filters through my mind, blending with the wind, the birds, and the whistling ruins. The conductor, recognizable not by her baton, but by her Queen of Hearts costume, motions for the start of a song. Her quartet jumps to readiness, as if moved by invisible strings. I take off my glasses in preparation for my final escape. I take one more deep breath, chin on rail, and slip into the past. The strings disappear, as the orbs of vivid blue and red float in the night, a sight that is no less strange than the previous one. I put my eyes back on and walk away; ten steps out, I turn around, to check if the mobile is still there. It is.
I look on my camera for proof of the night, but no proof exists. The pictures are nothing more than streaks of color against a dark canvas. Does the lack of evidence disprove the reality of my jaunts; was it indeed a manifestation of my imagination? Or simply a recreation born from pieces already present? Did the other thousands of Romans have the same dream I did? A peek out the window shows that the streets and the Campo are deserted; people who were emptied into the streets just a few hours earlier have returned to their magical clown cars.
Was last night only a dream?
cw, #4
Tonight, Rome is stripped of its tourists, its erratic white taxis and heat, leaving behind trees napping under the moonlight and the wanderer alone to explore. The Forum is covered by a blanket of darkness, the ancient marble and bricks relaxed after a tense day under the glare of sunlight. As I walk by Julius Caesar, he points to the distance, where a strange shape catches my eye—I am at a loss for what its proper name is, but I recognize it immediately as the missing curl from violin faces. Naturally, I gravitate towards the sight; my eyes follow the strings downwards—six people are being strapped into harnesses, a few have instruments in their hands but in the darkness, it is difficult to see who has what. Taking their lead, I too allow the tension out of my shoulders, and focus on the murmur of the leaves and the air sweetened by the specks of history trapped within its whorls. Breath in, breath out, my rhythm slows. A note is struck, and the mobile rises, dangling precariously from a cartoonish orange crane, a sight visualized but unprocessed by my brain—both halves protesting against the impossibility and impracticality, attempting to reconcile it with the visual input. The barely perceptible harmony of Mozart filters through my mind, blending with the wind, the birds, and the whistling ruins. The conductor, recognizable not by her baton, but by her Queen of Hearts costume, motions for the start of a song. Her quartet jumps to readiness, as if moved by invisible strings. I take off my glasses in preparation for my final escape. I take one more deep breath, chin on rail, and slip into the past. The strings disappear, as the orbs of vivid blue and red float in the night, a sight that is no less strange than the previous one. I put my eyes back on and walk away; ten steps out, I turn around, to check if the mobile is still there. It is.
I look on my camera for proof of the night, but no proof exists. The pictures are nothing more than streaks of color against a dark canvas. Does the lack of evidence disprove the reality of my jaunts; was it indeed a manifestation of my imagination? Or simply a recreation born from pieces already present? Did the other thousands of Romans have the same dream I did? A peek out the window shows that the streets and the Campo are deserted; people who were emptied into the streets just a few hours earlier have returned to their magical clown cars.
Was last night only a dream?
cw, #4
9.08.2007
Permanent Imagery
“Beauty is a weapon of mass destruction,” said Joseph Connors.
Beauty: the word has different meanings for everyone, and even for the same person, its meaning shifts with new perspectives and experiences. For me, beauty is found in simplicity, efficiency, and strength—properties that speak to my values and connect to my experiences. Beauty is an unexpected sight that causes me to reconsider my assumed paradigms, something that makes me think about the world from a different vantage point.
By this standard, something beautiful does not need to induce awe or be aesthetically pleasing, and in fact, according to Harriet Rubin, author of Dante in Love, Connors “meant that encounters with beauty unsettle a person.” By this standard, Chiesa di Santa Maria della Concezione is one of the most beautiful sights of Rome.
Before the class enters, the anticipation is built. It is not a joke, warns Shawn, act as you would in any other church. Lisa and Shawn go so far as to make entrance optional, but that, of course makes me more curious to see what’s inside. I scowl a bit at their warning--I prefer to judge for myself first, without moral context, without the expectation of another’s social paradigm. But in this case, all words would be overwritten by the power of the experience to come.
I walk under the doorway of the Coemeterium, and even the long warning we just got could not prepare me for the sight. The bones are not in the room, they are the room; not just a few reconstructed skeletons, but bits and pieces from hundreds of Capuchin monks arranged decoratively, artistically even. The bones do not form a passive display; instead, I am thrust into their midst, with no escape except to close my eyes. When I open them, I take a few shallow breaths and settle for writing a description in my journal, averting my eyes for another moment. Finally, I look again, at the pelvises and vertebrae used to decorate the ceiling in flower motifs, complete with elaborate borders. Stacks of skulls line the archway around a painting that is the focal point of the room. On the left and right walls, are bundles of femurs which form arches, under which lie clothed skeletons of two Capuchin monks.
The sickly scent of death intermingled with syrupy incense irritate my trachea, but the discomfort is easily ignored by the signals racing through my mind. I forcefully turn down the volume of the thoughts flooding my synapses, as I continue to the next rooms, past the lamps hanging overhead, comprised entirely of more bones. I squeeze through four more rooms, arms tucked, walking carefully, not to avoid touching the sides physically, but withdrawing myself from the reality of death. At the end of the slow walk, a plaque reads:
“Quello che voi siete noi eravamo; quello che noi siamo voi sarete.”
(What you are now we used to be; what we are now you will be)
There is no way out except back the way I have come, so I turn, forced to take second look. Somehow, the initial shock has dissipated and perhaps by design, my suppressed thoughts about life, death, and religion continue unabated. When I exit the church, I stand, numbed by the assault of thoughts that the display has induced, scribbling madly into my journal, allowing it to relieve my mind of its burden. Why am I appalled? Whose moral system have I accepted without knowing? What happens to the body after death? The soul? Is there a soul and can it be proven? Was that an acceptable use of human remains? Acceptable by whose standard? Where do these moral structures come from? And so on… Moments later, my classmates join me, and they too are unnaturally subdued, all forced to consider ideas usually left untouched. We each throw a bit of ourselves, and of our reactions into the conversation, as if testing the waters. Soon, it becomes a heated discussion: we exchange, ponder, and argue all the way to the Borghese Gallery--the meaning of life, the existence of soul, and implications and purpose of religion, our voices echo in the small bus #116, and mingle playfully with the trees along our path. I smile.
Beauty: the ability to force a reconsideration of everything we believe.
cw #5
Beauty: the word has different meanings for everyone, and even for the same person, its meaning shifts with new perspectives and experiences. For me, beauty is found in simplicity, efficiency, and strength—properties that speak to my values and connect to my experiences. Beauty is an unexpected sight that causes me to reconsider my assumed paradigms, something that makes me think about the world from a different vantage point.
By this standard, something beautiful does not need to induce awe or be aesthetically pleasing, and in fact, according to Harriet Rubin, author of Dante in Love, Connors “meant that encounters with beauty unsettle a person.” By this standard, Chiesa di Santa Maria della Concezione is one of the most beautiful sights of Rome.
Before the class enters, the anticipation is built. It is not a joke, warns Shawn, act as you would in any other church. Lisa and Shawn go so far as to make entrance optional, but that, of course makes me more curious to see what’s inside. I scowl a bit at their warning--I prefer to judge for myself first, without moral context, without the expectation of another’s social paradigm. But in this case, all words would be overwritten by the power of the experience to come.
I walk under the doorway of the Coemeterium, and even the long warning we just got could not prepare me for the sight. The bones are not in the room, they are the room; not just a few reconstructed skeletons, but bits and pieces from hundreds of Capuchin monks arranged decoratively, artistically even. The bones do not form a passive display; instead, I am thrust into their midst, with no escape except to close my eyes. When I open them, I take a few shallow breaths and settle for writing a description in my journal, averting my eyes for another moment. Finally, I look again, at the pelvises and vertebrae used to decorate the ceiling in flower motifs, complete with elaborate borders. Stacks of skulls line the archway around a painting that is the focal point of the room. On the left and right walls, are bundles of femurs which form arches, under which lie clothed skeletons of two Capuchin monks.
The sickly scent of death intermingled with syrupy incense irritate my trachea, but the discomfort is easily ignored by the signals racing through my mind. I forcefully turn down the volume of the thoughts flooding my synapses, as I continue to the next rooms, past the lamps hanging overhead, comprised entirely of more bones. I squeeze through four more rooms, arms tucked, walking carefully, not to avoid touching the sides physically, but withdrawing myself from the reality of death. At the end of the slow walk, a plaque reads:
“Quello che voi siete noi eravamo; quello che noi siamo voi sarete.”
(What you are now we used to be; what we are now you will be)
There is no way out except back the way I have come, so I turn, forced to take second look. Somehow, the initial shock has dissipated and perhaps by design, my suppressed thoughts about life, death, and religion continue unabated. When I exit the church, I stand, numbed by the assault of thoughts that the display has induced, scribbling madly into my journal, allowing it to relieve my mind of its burden. Why am I appalled? Whose moral system have I accepted without knowing? What happens to the body after death? The soul? Is there a soul and can it be proven? Was that an acceptable use of human remains? Acceptable by whose standard? Where do these moral structures come from? And so on… Moments later, my classmates join me, and they too are unnaturally subdued, all forced to consider ideas usually left untouched. We each throw a bit of ourselves, and of our reactions into the conversation, as if testing the waters. Soon, it becomes a heated discussion: we exchange, ponder, and argue all the way to the Borghese Gallery--the meaning of life, the existence of soul, and implications and purpose of religion, our voices echo in the small bus #116, and mingle playfully with the trees along our path. I smile.
Beauty: the ability to force a reconsideration of everything we believe.
cw #5
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