RED DIRT LATTES

I fell down the rabbit hole, crawling through hell on Dante’s back, carried by him as he was by Virgil. I’ve been singing with the chorus of dear Oedipus’ fate and marveling at Ovid’s tree swaying in birth as its bark split open to give the world Adonis. I am battling seas with Homer and finding Utopia with More, to come.

To be a writer, I must read. Columbia University gave me my start, but as my life keeps moving forward, I realize there is no return to who I once had been. So to England, Goldsmiths college I went, by way of these keys, and into books I now surrender. In the spaces in-between, I am beginning to write my own stories, my own book of fateful tales.

I won’t be here much since I’ve gone back to the beginning. I will try and occasionally post something if I can find the time to ever look up, but Red Dirt Lattes will be a sleepier joint for now.

I sure hope it looks like the poster.

http://www.france24.com/en/20111013-indignant-protests-sweep-across-world-0

So, I’ve started smoking again. You can’t live in Italy and not have the occasional cigarette, unless you choose to never open your mouth. Just today, as I was walking past a friendly face and opened up a hello, the man next to me exhaled and with a perfect flick of his head sent the smoke directly into my waiting smile and I actually blew out with him. Even when I try to play soccer on the streets, dogging everyone with a flame, they wait in doorways, huddled together under a cloud of doom that I must part and become part.

I must share though that the relief it has offered me, as a parent, has been enormous. I will never have to wonder when and if my daughter will have a first cigarette. That happened at 3.

And coffee. Oh, coffee. I love it. I want to sit in the cup and play in it for while. But it’s so small. No matter how little I sip, no matter how hard I try to not suck, it’s over in 3 tries. It’s why there are no chairs at the bars. Your ass would never hit that seat with liquid still in that cup. So, I order many cups and this is why I no longer sleep.

And the lovers. On every corner. These young Italians with hormones exploding all over the street. Hands and fingers and tongues and looks of longing that if I stare hard enough start to pull me in and I do worry about collisions. Must I be reminded every day that I didn’t get to be a teenager the Italian way? Yeah, that really sucks.

So, I guess the only thing to do is have another glass of wine, and love every minute of it.

Where else in the world can you land that you are greeted into a city by two youths biting each other’s tongues, practically falling onto the conveyor belt with passion, while waiting for your baggage? Two young lovers that couldn’t have known our bags actually would not come, so had they not been there my eyes would have searched endlessly for something to land on, and well, I was already quite tired. I wish I could thank them.

I do hope our bags enjoyed their extended stay in Paris. We made the connection, but apparently they did not. I will have to ask the last one still there, if it ever chooses to leave.

Bumbling through jet-lag, we are roaming the streets for a new home. Our life is a series of moves, boxes packed and unpacked, never quite settling. But Rome just got bigger; I feel myself expanding.

The little one is in a new school with Mussolini’s great-grandson. Apparently, he’s a bit of a bully.

Will I ever get tired of seeing the Coliseum all lit up at night?

Or the fountains that pour out endlessly?

In our new neighborhood, I have found a café with pictures of African warriors hanging from the ceiling. I go there daily now. I get to be in Rome and feel a little bit of Africa at the same time. A good place to have a red dirt latte.