Tuesday, March 29, 2011

On Immaculate Conception Day,

I wrote this four months ago, but I'm gonna to post it tonight since I'm rubbing two sticks together over the next thing I'm writing, and I've decided to post more often because it feels like the correct thing to do.

Today I went to San Felice Circeo, a mountain/ocean village.
On the way he told me how this was the place where two men brought two girls they had abducted there. How one was killed and the other was left for dead in a car in the woods. He also told me it had become a custom for persons to go to this place for promiscuous reasons, for strange parties, and that he invariably senses something wrong in the air when he goes there.
A pause, “And why are you bringing me there?”
“Because it’s beautiful,” he said. “The beauty of this place probably gives the others the power to do bad things.”
“Okay then.”
Yes, he speaks with that much basic intensity. The probable hypothesis for this is that he dips his peeled orange slices in salt before eating them.
On the bridge that connects San Circeo to other places, I saw the mountain that looks like a slumbering giant. He suggested for me to use my imagination to see it. I don’t think I have to turn my imagination on.  I immediately saw the nose and forehead..... When I squint I can see myself living several different lives in different cities. I have this reoccurring vision of myself standing on a farm. I know that none of these lives are real, but they could be, if I wanted them to be.
He was right. It is beautiful there. I forgot about the threesomes or foursomes, and the other scary story that I remember now. I forgot about all that when taking photos of gnomes and pastel pink walls with red flowerbeds fastened to them.
Yet, it's just another pretty place where I could see myself reside in for eight days. I could never actually live there… I saw a girl walking her dog in these black-heeled boots in the rain on a cobblestone road. I could never do that. I wouldn’t want to. I’m glad I saw it though. 

No comments:

Post a Comment