Italy Post #21

Dear Readers,
Most of you know that my sister is home right now. If not, she's home right now. Anyway, there is a sense in which I'm jealous of her. Or maybe just envious. I miss home; not even Westmont, but actually Oakdale. The way the leaves would change colors all the way down the driveway, the bite that is in the air if you get up early enough to catch it, the comfort of sitting on the couch with a hot cup of tea and a good book. Fall is definitely here, but its not a comforting fall. It creeps in through the walls and floors and staying your bones. I'm even cold right now. But its not even just the cold; its the feeling of fall. I can't help missing it: fall is my favorite season. Pumpkins! Pumpkin pie, pumpkin seeds, pumpkin muffins. They don't have pumpkins here. There is also a missing sense of rejoicing, that feeling that keeps you going until Christmas. The feeling that rejoices in the coolness of the days. Here everyone just bundles up and keeps their head down, as if they want to live in summer forever.

But what am I saying, dear readers? I live in Santa Barbara! I don't like the cold! But there is a part of me that misses being home in this moment. And maybe its the fact that I miss the people there as well, the comfort of being around people who know you intimately and care for you even more. Letter writing has kept that feeling alive in me, but the quick comfort of crying on the shoulder of someone who loves you is absent here. But what can I do? Eat my fill of roasted chestnuts (they're really into that here) in some wind-sheltered alley among the cold stones? NO! I choose to live vicariously through the visits of friends and family: Kelsey for sure on Sunday (yay!!!) and then maybe KiKi and Julie on Thursday! While I know its not quite home, the presence of people from California will hopefully give me a new perspective.

People from the program has described this feeling as the end of the "honeymoon" stage of Orvieto living. I know this town pretty well, and its not quite as romantic as I first thought it. Yes, its still just as beautiful and I could sit and stare at the duomo forever! But, in the same way, there are things I just don't like about Italian culture. They don't have sidewalks. People never smile at you; actually, they talk about you freely behind your back. Everything is more expensive, except cookies. I'm so glad I came here and was able to spend time getting to know another culture, but in some ways that has made me appreciate America so much more. I still will always hate strip malls and chain stores. But if I could trade my cappuccino maker for a chai tea latte from Coffee Bean in this very moment, I would probably do it.

But watch: when I get back from Italy, I'll be dying for some good pasta and olive oil and won't be able to keep to the sidewalks. I'm expecting it. And I guess that is why I'm still carrying on here and making the best of my time: its growing ever thinner as the weeks and months pass.

Italy Post #20

Dear Readers,
We've reached number 20!!! How exciting! Well, dear readers, its that time again. The time when the clock starts to move faster, the rain seems to fall a little harder, the colors on the chrysanthemums don't look quite as bright. That's right, its finals week. I have: 1 poem due tomorrow, 5 revisions due Thursday, and a banquet to follow it all. But don't feel sorry for me; think of the poor drawing students who have to work outside in the freezing cold, drawing straight lines with wobbly fingers. heh heh

Its been a pretty uneventful week though, sorry to say. Oh, although there has been one bright spot: I'm going to Ireland!!! yessss! I'm so excited! Even just today I read some Eavan Boland and my heart fluttered with joy at the thought of being in the green fields and blue skies of the island. Now, just to get through the next week.

In other news (sorry, this is a bunch of random thoughts): I'm going to Padua this weekend! The past few weeks have been a bunch of disappointments: first mom and Kiki couldn't make it out, then Bailey cancelled on me (both for good reasons, but still...). I didn't have any plans for this weekend, but then suddenly my whole weekend was made free so I was kinda left in the lurch. But the drawing students are so wrapped up with work that they didn't make plans either, so I'm either making just a day trip there, or I'm going on Friday to Padua and then to Cortona on Sunday. There is apparently a great chocolate festival in Padua and I have a friend in Cortona.

So, my friends, do not fret: my spirits have been lifted. Sort of.

Italy Post #19

Dear Readers,
I want to talk about the weather. Not because I don't have anything else to say, but because I'm finding that Italian weather is very different. First of all, Orvieto is built on a mesa. While this is the coolest thing EVER, it also creates strange effects with the weather. Because the landscape changes so drastically, Orvieto gets rained on a lot. The rain also seems to have a mind of its own, waiting until you're about half way from the convent to the corso to downpour. Another strange thing about this place is that the weather has suddenly dropped. In a bad way. Tuesday I was walking in the sun in a t-shirt and jeans; Wednesday I was wearing my pea-coat and scarf like they were an extra skin. Seriously, I've never seen the weather decide to change so drastically, but maybe that comes from living in Santa Barbara.

Well, everyone in the poetry class was fearing going to Rome yesterday because the trip spanned the whole day: 6:15am departure, 8:30pm arrival back. I opted to dress lightly, and froze until I got on the train at 7 but after that the weather was beautiful. It was probably in the low 60s, sunny and brisk, perfect for a fast walk around Rome. Some highlights from the trip include seeing Raphael's School of Athens/the Disputa, the Laocoon, and the Sistene chapel, but my favorite was 3 paintings by Caravaggio (the calling/inspiration/death of St. Matthew). The chiaroscuro technique that Caravaggio used is breathtaking! I came away from Rome with this desire to see more, so I might be making a trip back to wander around and see more of the city....we'll have to see :0)

Newest poem - you should look up the painting to go along with this one, the assignment was to write an ekphrastic poem about a contemporary piece of art; the title is the work of art I chose.

Up in the Studio, 1965 Andrew Wyeth

She sits quietly, back straight, hands resting
on top of her knees - knees that have often bent
to kneel at the dim altar in the church downtown
onto the slick velvet carpet, or to help carry

her groaning father across the splintered wood
to a bed braced with pillows. She catches rest now,
bathed in the thin light struggling through her favorite
window. She can hear the whistling of wind around barren

trees; it is always like this in winter. She has watched
this floor become the color of the many shoe soles
that have walked upon it. You would think she likes
that color - her jacket is the same trampled brown -

but in reality it is a deep green, the color of the winter
weight of pine and mistletoe. It is what she looks on now,
her one break in the day between cooking and cleaning
a house that isn’t hers for a father too decrepit to hire

a maid or nurse or even supply an artist’s easel -
for that is what she really wants to do - paint -
paint herself a room with walls the color of lemon
curd, where light reaches its warm fingers into every

corner and children’s bubbly laughter is audible
from the open windows hung with white lace. Winter
would remain only in the trees scattered outside
the window. I want to be in that picture too.

Instead she is here, uncomfortable in a Quaker
chair inherited from a generation that wanted
to punished themselves with the harsh white light
reflecting off the snow drifts, resting in the only

part of the day where the forest outside becomes
a living painting for her to watch as the seasons
erase then redraw the leaves on the trees and the only
sounds she has to hear are the whoosh of the wind

outside her window and the gentle squeak of the rocking
chair as she slowly pats the floor with her worn feet.

Italy Post #18

Dear Readers,
Its that time for another update I think. Although I love providing snapshots of daily life, the little things that I find fascinating or the things that interest me, sometimes the dryness of a play-by-play is good just for orientation. And I want to keep you oriented readers.

Life here has been pretty regular, which is not a bad thing. I have a schedule for each day, usually starting out at around 7 with a cappuccino and a good read or some singing in the chapel (have I mentioned that the acoustics here are AMAZING?!). Class goes pretty much the same way every day, split equally between a discussion of the reading (which I excel in) and a critique of the poetry (which I fail in). I find it much easier to discuss the reading, probably because literature classes have been my main focus up until this semester. Its so hard to have my poetry critiqued, to have people tear apart this work that I've spent so much time on. I've gotten a little more used to it, but it still is hard. Lunch is next, which has been going pretty good; they serve amazing pasta, usually followed by some sort of meat and veggie course. Not bad, right? This is where the variations come in: after lunch, each day includes different activities, which are sometimes mandatory (eg. Italian class). It just fills up my day, but not in a bad way. By the time dinner is ready, I've made a good use of my time, writing and reading in the breaks in my day, usually with a warm glass of tea by my side. Its quite enjoyable.

Florence was AMAZING! I couldn't believe how daring I was: getting on a train for the first time by myself, venturing off into a foreign city alone with some sketch plans to hopefully meet up with Jenny. But it all worked out in the end, we met up and ducked into a cafe for some lunch since it was raining and got to catch up with each other. All in all it was a great time, plus I got to get a TON of christmas presents for people :0) And the best part was that I walked into dinner late that night back in Orvieto; everyone was sitting down already and saw me walk in and they were so happy to see me! I just felt so welcomed, it was great! Then we all went back to the monastery and played 3 games of Werewolf (like Mafia, but horribly inferior). Fun fun fun!

Italy Post #17

Dear Readers,
As of this afternoon, I booked my train ticket to Florence! Yay! This will be the first time I'll have travelled all alone in Italy; yay? I'm pretty scared, especially since I don't speak much Italian, but the train goes directly. Also I will be traveling part of the way with two of the students who speak lots of Italian and fluent Spanish who are going to Pisa.

Things to do in Florence:
-Visit Jenny!
-look for Christmas presents, especially a cameo for JuJuFruit
-buy lots and lots of scarves
-gaze at the Arno
-visit the Boboli Gardens

Newest poem:

Beneath arches of tufa

When I recall those days of August heat,
the blind light of summer streaking through
beams of brick and stone around the patio
where I played with mud and sticks as a child,

the problem of pain and understanding sinks
beneath my realm of comprehension, losing
itself in the days and weeks and months
where walking became a tear-stained memory

and nights were tormented by muscles like scissors
tearing up my back. I didn’t want
home to be the place to rest, but there
I found myself, wrapped in the old worn

blankets of my childhood while
my mom poured her love like olive oil,
thick and rich, upon the scars and wounds
that had built up like a crust over years.

Rest never came to me there, where
love grew in the shadow of daily
life, and time was clogged with stress and school.
Bible studies were the only place

where we met in love. I could use it now.
The mother of my savior meets my gaze,
flocked by angels and saints of ages past.
I couldn’t reach out to her in moments

of pain or trial. No, that is not
my Mary. The Mary I like to think of
rests beneath faded arches of tufa,
tucked away in an old church where

the altar, clothed in light and lace, takes
the place of honor. A veil of cobwebs graces
her weathered head, which doesn’t bend
to peer at you; no, she is focused

on her son, broken and bent at
her knee, his arm extended across her lap
like a rod. There they sit, forever
silent amid the musty pews and dwindling

parishoners who come each week to cast
their worries and burdens and hurt aside at
the feet of their savior who accepted the pain
and suffering and understanding of humanity

to show the compassion of a loving God,
a God who chose a single mother to bear
the good news of a child who would one
day grow to be the man who needs her balm

of love spread across his scarred back,
for her to hold him and support him even
when the nails are driven into a plan
that takes the pain and comprehension of

a good God to understand.

Italy Post #16

Dear Readers,
What I've learned in Italy:

-Rain comes unexpectedly here, often in big drops.
-Stink bugs are abundant.
-Walking along the road is a guarantee for danger.
-Cappuccino's are a necessity to life. In general.
-The duomo provides endless inspiration.
-A small felt topcover is not enough to keep you warm at night.
-Not slipping on wet tile is an art form.
-Rusty old pianos sound better over time.
-Acoustics in a monastery can't be beat.
-Small children who love green and pirates are lots of fun!
-Taking shots isn't so bad.
-Hymns are the greatest thing EVER!
-The chocolate cake from Montanucci's is to die for!
-Cobblestones and wedges do not mix.
-A tiny kitchen is a recipe for disaster.
-The law of entropy double and triples when there are two or more people around.
-Cafe Barrique has the best view and the most comfortable seats.
-Almost everywhere is accessible by train.
-Orvieto Classico is the best white wine. And the cheapest.
-Almost everything here is more expensive. Except, oddly, cookies.
-Cookies here are delicious and often eaten for breakfast.
-Scarves are a must for every woman's closet.
-Every street eventually leads to the duomo.
-The Catholic mass is more beautiful in Italian.
-Puzzles make my life worth living for sometimes.
-The best thing they serve at Locanda del Lupo is pasta. And lasagna.
-Italians don't dip their bread in olive oil.
-Having the hope of visitors from home can pull you through a terrible week.
-Getting mail has never been so precious.
-The placemats at Locanda make excellent paper for letter-writing.
-Men are sketchy. Especially the old men.
-Poems can be difficult.
-There is such a thing as a Charismatic Catholic.
-Cobblestones are slippery when wet.

Italy Post #15

Dear Readers,
I want your honest opinion: do you like reading my poetry? Since taking this poetry class, I've had to write a lot of poems, some I liked and some I wanted to ground up in the garbage disposal. I like to post my best ones for advice or comments, both positive and negative. But no one seems to comment. I've constructed 2 possible answers for this situation: 1. No one actually reads my blog and just follows it to seem like they are good friends/family. 2. Everyone is shy of commenting. But, here's the thing readers: I LOVE comments! When I see that 3 people have commented on my blog, I get this warm bubbly feeling inside, like my heart is growing in size just a little. Its so exciting to hear what you guys have to say, plus it makes this blog into more of a conversation than a monologue.

So, let me know what you think of my poetry, whether you'd like to see more or less. Or what I should write about if not the world around me as I see it. Its yours to comment on.

Newest Poem (a sonnet):

The Annunciation

It must have filled her with terror to see
him towering there, white wings spread against
the star-clothed sky. She did not ask or even need
a sanction of divine favor, the recompense
for a plan nailed into place long before
her eyes had first fluttered. The situation -
a name ingrained in her flesh - whore,
adulteress. Angels waiting in trepidation
did not know what they asked. Gabriel paced
the shimmering air; time came in bated breaths
from her quaking lungs. Finally a word braced
the night with slender sound, a quiet “yes”
following cracks of thunder - he was gone
leaving her to decide if she chose wrong.

Italy Post #14

Dear Readers,
I've become addicted to writing villanelles. A villanelle is a very frustrating formal form of writing that actually originated in Italy (explanation for my obsession perhaps?) that doesn't really allow the poet to go anywhere. The movement of the poem is repeatedly stopped by the form of the poem itself - a turning in. The first and last lines of the first stanza are repeated numerous times throughout the poem, making it difficult for a progression of thought. One of my classmates described them as "utterly worthless". Yet, villanelles can be quite endearing, which is why I'm attracted to them; with modern poetry pushing its boundaries, the villanelle has been given a little room to grow. I'm also quite inspired by Elizabeth Bishop's "One Art" (look it up if you don't know it!), which is a villanelle that has such passion and poignance in it that I felt inspired to write not one villanelle, but two. Tell me what you think of this one; I may be submitting the first one for our next assignment, which is to write in a classical form.

The Annunciation
Had you refused that fateful night
said No, that is not to my liking and gone
to sleep, would the world still be under the plight

of generations living and breathing with no light
nor hope in their lives, barren of promise
had you refused that fateful night?

Could it have been at the fright
of golden Gabriel that you refused
to submit, the world still under the plight

of Adam’s curse, the world made right
only with a sacrifice on your part, unless
you had refused that fateful night,

gone against a God who just might
have nailed your future into his plan
to save the world with his son’s own plight?

And could you resist the glorious sight
of a future wrapped in tinsel and misteltoe -
No, you couldn’t refuse that fateful night
to show a world about hardship and plight.

Italy Post #13

Dear Readers,
I have one word for you - VENDEMIA! No, its not something violent or even remotely painful. Unless you get stung by a bee. A vendemia is the Italian grape harvest, where for one day people get together and go out into the vines to cut off the grapes to make wine. Its a festival in a sense, but more people take it as a great tradition that celebrates the end of a good year.

So, Saturday we woke up very early for a Saturday and took the train out to a little area called Volpara (or "little fox"). Albert and Inga (our lovely, very Dutch wine-makers) met us at the train station and wisked us off to their vineyard. Actually, only 5 of us got to ride in the car (me included because of my legs), but the walk for the rest wasn't very far. The vineyard was situated on the peak of a small hill that looked on to the valley; Inga's erratic driving took us up the hill with a few jolts and a lot of swearing, which I thought was hilarious. But finally we reached the top, which gave a glorious view of the valley. Their house reminded me of a fairytale cottage, it was small and compact. Very cute. They took some time to tell us what grapes to pick, how to cut the stems, and encouraged us to have as many grapes as we wanted. I definitely took that idea to the max, eating all of the grapes I wanted but I ended up getting soooo sick of them! Each bunch that didn't look perfect or that was smaller than the rest needed to be taste-tested to see if the grapes were sour; I tested almost each bunch that I picked. That adds up to a lot of grapes! These grapes were also smaller and more concentrated in flavor and most had 3 or 4 seeds in them.

Not the best for eating.

All in all though, it was a wonderful day filled with eating, laughter, grapes and seeds, and bees. Lots of bees. Plus the satisfaction of having picked hundreds of grapes off of a vine that would eventually go into a high-quality wine that people would eventually drink. How cool is that?!