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Sunday, Solemn, Sunday.
I extract myself from a vicious three-hours of sleep. Check the clock, get dressed and make way to the cathedral. A late morning service is being administered to a scant number of parishioners and foreigners alike. I assume all of God's important work was done while we were sleeping, and that this tape-delayed message was chastising us few, faithless followers. I ask myself when was my last visit to mass, without quick memory to mind, I focus on the massive, yellow faded fresco of Saint Agata, Sicily's patroness, behind the altar. The painting warms me like all good religious ecstasy should, and I realize I am not wearing any underwear. I am immediately flush with Catholic guilt. I confess blame on the Candy Aqua 600 T washing machine in my bathroom that encases a spinner the size of a basketball. How many under garments does one National Basketball Association deemed official round ball hold? God Almighty, have mercy on us. God Almighty, grant me clean underwear. Amen. I return home. Sitting on my balcony, shirtless. Sweat navigates the hair on my chest down to the dark cavern of my navel. It's post1PM. The street below is vacant for at least an hour. I share the solitude with the baby birds that dart from their nest located atop the neighboring building. Daily, many of these winged-swine drop the previous night's dinner, via intestinal turnover, on my terrace. So, I lower my head, eye the cobbled pavement and watch the shadow of the birds until they are consumed by the monster darkness preceding a round, older woman. Plodding her way slowly, she sees me. Puzzled at the stranger baking in the Sicilian sun. I wave, one hand clapping, and follow her every step. A disturbed 'good day,' echoes as she passes the graffiti covered walls. A larger than life Homer Simpson head, in red paint, strikes me as it rests against an electricity box. A television is turned on, the noise filters into the street. A man's voice barks the news from Italy's ubiquitous broadcast station, RAI. I imagine the man to look a little like America's favorite cartoon father; but in reality, I am sure he resembles a past life updating the Italian people of massive bombings during the war era. I return inside my apartment to relieve myself of the pressure of the sun on my skin and wait. My internet haunt, across from an English pub, opens every day at 5PM so I can read the western world stories printed in New York newspapers. The new world is an unfathomable distance. My only physical connection is the image of commercial youth circling the outdoor tables of bars every night. Boys and girls prominently displaying new fashions from chic magazines and singing songs heard on American music television. The elders stand motionless in the middle, casting eyes to the heavens and wishing opportunity for their sons and daughters. But eventually, as the night grows old and the months and years are ripped from touristy calendars hanging behind the bar, opportunity is replaced with the responsibility of age and the center is recast. The glossy coat of idealism crumpled, again. Young professionals and aspiring adults surrender to the middle - a prodigal return. I is
Post 4 - July'05 Back to home...
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