Image Junkyard 1-4, Week 3

Our voices fall in the cathedral, settle on the wooden floor rests before sliding up the bench and tugging, gently at our shoulders. I whisper: what's that smell? The answer: the vindictive scents of Roman Catholicism, like thick and aging paints, hidden dust, and bodies--crated and propped for display, one saint so old his face sinks like rusted bones, as if the river ran through him too long.

The sound of the children here does not remind me of laughter, full-bellied squeals. Rather, something violent: their mouths swell, produce voices that kick the sky, do not resonate or hang there but pop, puncture the ears and leave holes in your hearing. They run, and their voices pound beside them.

The bathroom: even with the door closed the light still hints color, the sea foam the tile floor is meant to mimic, an opposite as all the upper walls and ceiling glisten with the vibrancy of the color white. The sink, toilet, bidet all glitter in their, muted color--bowls of the blank. Even the small glass above the shower lets in the purity of a large, white cross. The only break from the glaring sterility is the artificial age provided by the window, a large wooden arch, bricked, lined close with dark, wooden shutters.

Railing forward, hill side, from a bird cage, we climb to the basilica. My foot heaves under the weight of my stress--behind me, a great unfolding: a crinkled spread of greenery followed by the clattered brown and orange rooftops of Gubbio. Directly below me a tree bursts wooden buds of pine cones, dotted haphazardly through its dark, deep branches. The sky, not so far now, rattles in its haze of gray.

Reading Journal 2, Week 3

Wrapped in the constraints of the gothic horror, these stories presented Italy as more of an element of atmosphere than an actual setting—rather, the settings functioned rather diminutively, and instead of pulling on Italy’s stereotypes for allure, operated on such a level that the bare facts of one particular environment alone did all the work in which Italy and Italy’s connotation usually create. For example, in Rappacini’s Daughter, majority of the story takes place in the ethereal and almost haunting location of the garden—a place not generally associated with a source of horror, but in its description of the almost unnatural beauty and allure of the plants, creates a sort of self-sufficient foreboding not supplied by the brief mentioning of Padua (primarily in the beginning of the piece). Of course, there is the idea that only these sorts of things happen in crazy, overtly passionate countries (i.e. Italy), but the lack of foreign attitudes and architectures seems to suggest an universality to the plot. After all, the garden is a place created by the constructs of science rather than the power of Italy’s history. As for Poe’s brief Cask of Amontillado, Italy seems to work only as an anchor—in fact, I am not thoroughly convinced the story even took place in Italy. Though the opening hints at an Italian setting, especially in addition to the continual mentioning of the Italian vintage wines, there really is no definitive descriptors save for the “Italian-ish” sounding names to leave me settled and confident. 

Reading Journal 1, Week 3

Reading The Italian, I am reminded of Shakespeare, and how the English preferred to use Italy as a place of scandal—a place taken by passion and distance, just foreign enough for all the madness and all the supernatural to seem normal and every day. This is what I think The Italian is emulating here. For example, in the opening, the Englishman is both shocked and outraged with the church for keeping and aiding an assassin, while the Italian friend smiles knowingly, naturally. And again, in the story supposed to constitute pure fact: a tale of a boy who denies his filial duty and throws himself, headlong, into danger and dishonor, taken by his passion for a girl the narrator admits Vivaldi barely knows, captured instead by the appealing features behind the veil, the sweet notes of her voice. And again, embodied in the elements of assassination and the almost inhuman qualities of the covert monk who consistently propels into the shadows, evading, The Italian uses Italy for its heightened sense of mystery and the reckless emotion still tied to the country as a whole. That being said, the only purely Italian architecture included (in specifics) are instances of a dock and shore, the constant presence of water, and the Roman arches—which serve less as a setting than as a place almost separate from the plane of reality, a realm of darkness and the potentially supernatural.  

Classmate Response 1, Week 2

Response to Thomas's Image Junkyard 3, Week 1:

So I'm going to pretend like Davidson didn't totally steal my moment to shine and comment on this. I think there are some interesting moments for delving into, which is one of my favorite things to look for in writing (remember when I said your friends will generally help you find what you're writing about--hi, I'm your friend). So yes, up the specificity a la Davidson, but now it's my turn. So I think you have two primarily interesting moments (and I imagine these two things go hand in hand) but these particular moments, I think, bring the greatest opportunity for depth in your work, the first being the phrase "cobblestones used for centuries" and the next being "American Viking." It's always a great deal of fun padding your awareness with the grandeur of history, which I recognize could be cliche, but the idea of narrowing that down to the streets, which have carried not only your feet but the feet of so many ancient Roman men and women (not to mention the sort everyday musing of where those feet were in a hurry to be—the market, the bathroom), it’d be a great deal of fun. Not to mention the amount of repair these buildings and streets go through, so the idea that where you're walking might be only partially real  (and "real" is a whole other can of worms, the idea of real, what defines real, so I obviously need to move on at this point). I also like the idea of combining Viking history and Roman history--a compare and contrast of their similarities, differences, and how all these things work together to create, as you put it "an American Viking". Also investigate how one might Americanize said history. Anyway, not necessarily all outlets you want to take right now, especially in one shot, but all of which are potential expansion possibilities.

Original Prompt 1, Week 2

I'm sorry, I'm really not following the instructions for the Original Prompt like I'm supposed to, but I find these I'm a little more interested in doing. I'll do better next time.

For this one, I wanted to dance around Anthony Hecht's A Hill, and improv it as if it was a formulaic process in order to see where I end up. So this is me trying to follow A Hill intimately. It was harder than it looks (even if it does follow Hecht so closely).

Love, as everyone already knows, only happens
in Italy, nothing at all like the Italian Affair or the whimsy
of the oppressable spirit. Perhaps not love at all.
In a bar with friends, more table than empty space,
in the cool grasp of late evening--a pummeled presence
of bodies, like rocks cast and abandoned in the livid rush
of men in bubble jackets and women whose dresses clasp
by the reluctant cooperation of a single bedazzled ring,
they all drink. The faded light and music
like the cathedrals around us swelter praise,
so that even the small shots of liquor taste
like mouthfuls of Heaven's soluble ferocity.
And then, where it happened, the dancing spun out
and the lights gust upwards, belly rings and alcohol stains
swiped away and all the bar collapsed, grounded
to particles of stone walls and splinters of wooden
flooring and in its place, sky--open and blue
and the flat consistency of well ground pavement
bouncing its tarred heat off apartment buildings
and empty lots--the quiet tension of afternoon
in summer, where, somewhere in shadow the brush
bursts with points and fat, bobbing heads of blackberries,
the sound of grass dives under foot as we climb
on the grassy section of hill to lay
the cardboard, a foundation beneath our bellies
and propel downward into the rush of grass and scene.

And that was all, the heat of adolescence
left abandoned forever, as time often does.

And then the twirl moved through as my clumsy feet
twisted around the shuffling legs of another dancer
and for the entire night I wrap myself in tendrils
of sweaty intimacy, which sprouted faint rings
as natural as fingerprints into my palms
and all that dancing so unlike me, but like that hillside,
I grasp for the glittering glass behind the bar
and let its cobbled streets and creaking chairs
weave wrinkles into me.

Memory 1, Week 2

Following on the tangent of horrible genius memories.

It was report card day. While the rest of my peers sat anxious and hot in the almost naked concrete classroom, I twittered with anticipation--a sort of self-satisfied haze at the successful achievement of my good, though ultimately meaningless, grades. When I made it home, my sister and I, always desperate to please (which was a seldom occurence--my stepmother often ruled her home with this ravenous scowl, always seeking satisfaction but never truly achieving it, which creased her cheeks with pulls of failed desire) we went immediately home to show off our report cards. My sister was especially jittery in her excitement (she always has the biggest smile, my sister, which expands the narrow length of her face strangely and almost severely when she's happy) because she had brought her failing science grade up to a C, which was a major accomplishment that my parents drove her to agony over for weeks (if I remember correctly, they took away every scrap of technology until she brought the grade up). I chose a level-headed coolness at the success of my own report card. My stepmother is a tiny woman, but when she's judging you, which is almost all the time, she seems to grow somehow. She took my sister's report card in her hand and scrutinized it with the same hungry folds, teetering and towering. Her mouth grasped satisfaction as she congratulated my sister, showering her with praises and congratulations. My sister glowed in the rare praise. She set down my sister's and I handed her mine. She looked at me and the smile left her face. "What did you get, all A's and B's again?" I nodded. All A's. My accomplishment diminished. She didn't even look at it as she set the paper on the countertop.

Image Junkyard 1-4, Week 2

1. A bubbled array of grafitti, glimpses from the window where the bright pinks pop and the blues blister their shape into the wall--barely recognizable words: Shake, Vortex. Scratches of paint under rooftops.

2. The deli counter of an Italian gas station--the slight musk of sweating meat and salt as the cashier pops her tongue against the butter yellow backdrop, existing between stacks of Japanese snacks and hulking thighs of pork.

3. Branches outside the train car, straining their arms over terracotta rooftops and veined power lines. They break and an alleyway of water yawns, full-bodied and green, stagnant but in a way that's awesome predatorial, waiting to smother the man and his bike that teeters on some muddy embankment staring towards the train tracks, dots of red and blue.

4. Coolness of Spoleto's stars grinding against the bar's heat. Trampling off-beat in a clumsy circle, the music took my sweat and swelter. Grinding air. Jerking hips.