It's been a while, hasn't it. I left Abruzzo happily, having gotten past most niceties as the charm of the place became a drag with one foot in a bear-trap. I got to the point in Italian when gli occhi no longer meant eyes or the eyes, but gli occhi. Entering another language is beginning an other world, each thing with different connotations and denotations, moods and places. Translation can be an atempt to compensate for loss or it can be a refiguring both closer to and further from its point of departure. In my departure for Florence, I hopped a Eurostar train for which I didn't have the right ticket. I got on at Bologna, figuring the conductor wouldn't come through until the leg between Florence and Rome, as their passing through had seemed to occur consistently between the two largest cities in the journey. A gentle paranoia fell over me. I did not have the energy to fight it, and so I went to the bathroom, took all of my money except 5 euro out of my wallet and into my back pocket and returned to my seat thinking if I'm to get caught, I can show I only have 5 euro to pay any fine, Florence is the next stop anyway, and give a please-,-I'm-sorry-,-I'm-a-stupid-American-face. The gamble paid off and I was in Florence, out of the reach of the conductors.
Florence for Halloween with the Vettoris and they had a box full of old costumes. I was given the cannibal costume with a fake bone to which I attached an American flag, which nobody seemed to get, so I took it off. There is Dario to the left, Sophia at right, and me in the middle. We've been drinking awful tasting vin brulé. Earlier in the day I'd ascended the Duomo, not to be confused with lighting it on fire, as I proclaimed to Dario that I was going to go accendere il duomo.
Leaving Italy to meet my parents in London, I was pummeled by the cold until my primary function as an animate being seemed to be to produce and wipe and blow copious exaggerated lots and lots big time gross quantities buckets barrels boats buildings of snot. Dad had to do the auctions, and so mom and I walked and bitched about how the city has the aesthetic and kinetic essence of porridge and the people just about the same. This was a period of little thinking, as though living in English and no longer rambling along on my own dessicated my idea-energy, as though my idea-energy dissipated with each English word that left my mouth and every phrase received by my ears, the unthoughtfulness of native knowledge. It had been coming on throughout my time in Abruzzo and maybe even starting as I left Florence the first time, I can't tell. And walking around with mom and dad, I often felt as though I was on some mild hallucinogen, paying close attention to them and at the same moment fostering some kind of malignant uncare; every movement saturated with so much meaning as can only come from the blood--I was coming into a spirit realm or falling apart or both. We got to Paris and saw Daniel, which was a big improvement on London, though, still being a cranky bastard, I was still being a cranky bastard. My parents left. I was sad for the boy I once was and who he was for them and now where our past and present selves live in the same skins like apparitions of crowded bedrooms, where the shoulders rub and pass through one another, where there is no space and only space, where the door is not a door and the walls are not walls and ladies and gentlemen we are floating in space or buried.
Ma and Pa
I stayed in a turret apartment from which one can see both the Eiffel Tower and Sacre Coeur, courtesy of François and Agnes Champarnaud. Agnes and François are excellent. How else to describe them? Very excellent. Free and rambling again, I spent some time in the apartment to make it feel my own--I turned out the light, closed my eyes, and moved the space around me, which could have been miles or inches from the next object; I expanded and contracted it, becoming more comfortable in it, stretching and condensing it to fit me. I visited Osman in Rennes, danced a bit after taking some encouragement from David Byrne, hung out more with Danyo, ate some falafel and an impressive meal he made for us and the Champarnauds, made it to London, to the airport, and got a good 2 or 3 hours of sleep in front of the check-in booth. My head, at that point, was at "I am ready for Morocco and I know I'm not ready, but I'm ready". Got in yesterday morning, found a hotel, and wandered around, little by little, getting less intimidated by the place. The main place, Djemma el-Fna could have been Renn Fayre or Babylon. It feels very real, even as much show as it is, and maybe especially. I walked through the souks and lost them in my wandering only to find them again and again. I'm in the shit now.
Florence for Halloween with the Vettoris and they had a box full of old costumes. I was given the cannibal costume with a fake bone to which I attached an American flag, which nobody seemed to get, so I took it off. There is Dario to the left, Sophia at right, and me in the middle. We've been drinking awful tasting vin brulé. Earlier in the day I'd ascended the Duomo, not to be confused with lighting it on fire, as I proclaimed to Dario that I was going to go accendere il duomo. 
