Untitled
L'accumulazione
Destiny By Way of PassionTHURSDAY, JANUARY 19th, 2006 at 02:04 AMEveryone should see this film: http://www.thebeat-movie.com/
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DenseMONDAY, JANUARY 16th, 2006 at 11:57 AMTo separate two lands enjoined I quietly enter a dreamless quiet Sinking so low and down into This is not a thriving current I quietly enter a dreamless quite Crawling activity has a record |
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No one ever dreamt of reasonWEDNESDAY, JANUARY 04th, 2006 at 03:53 AMNo talk of easy or the easiest Bring me something sweet Dear, I’m angry tonight You should see this wine go down I don’t want this pretty cup But there are no men anymore There’s that hopeless on my lips, |
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I want to live in the citySATURDAY, DECEMBER 24th, 2005 at 04:31 AMNo this is not the end you cannot conceive of oh my city is finely |
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like the ones who never let goFRIDAY, DECEMBER 02nd, 2005 at 12:59 AMHere are some songs I’m going to write with the band: 1. I’ll bite you like a big effing cat, like the ones you see on Animal Planet who latch onto the zebras, like the ones who never let go |
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what used to be everythingTHURSDAY, NOVEMBER 24th, 2005 at 03:48 AM
I can no longer be in the audience So, be there, and do not look for your mother, |
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BeatitudeTHURSDAY, NOVEMBER 03rd, 2005 at 11:35 PM
In this wretched confinement, I cannot lament This crooked heart and all attached to it Even in dreams we are struck and bound. Oh. sometimes its pure hatred for distance Until you mark the pathway to your heart |
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WavesTHURSDAY, NOVEMBER 03rd, 2005 at 08:45 PM“Alone, I rock my basins; I am mistress of my fleet of ships. But here, twisting the tassels of this brocaded curtain in my hostess’s window, I am broken into several pieces: I am no longer one….But I doubt: I tremble: I see the wild thorn tree shake its shadow in the desert. Now I will walk, as if I had an end in view, across the room, to the balcony under the awning. I see the sky, softly feathered with its sudden effulgence of moon; I also see the railings of the square, and two people without faces, leaning like statues against the sky. There is then, a world immune from change. When I have passed through this drawing room flickering with tongues that cut me like knives, making me stammer, making me lie, I find faces rid of features, robed in beauty. The lovers crouch under the plane tree. There is, then, a world immune from change.” |
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Team PoetryTUESDAY, OCTOBER 25th, 2005 at 01:48 PM(Picture by Nicole). this is the place we have become- I marvel at how your embrace is a birthing of future your touch is my mystery unraveling
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This weight, this long.WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 19th, 2005 at 08:35 AMIn an effort to put what I’m feeling into words, I need to first spell out what I’m doing. I’m getting ready to leave Aix-en-Provence, where Vanessa is studying, and preparing to say goodbye for a period that will last just over 8 months. Anyone reading this may already know that I’ve been trying to prepare for this event, this monumental goodbye, since I met my love. The instances during which I lamented both publicly and privately would make anyone weary, possibly fed up. On my own, I’ve consulted much poetry in an effort to grab a hold of this thing that is happening. Here’s one from way back: The Withdrawal 1 This week the house went on the market— I don’t need conversation, but you to laugh with— 2 One wishes heaven had less solemnity: 3 4 Hell? Darling, until the wristwatch is taken from the wrist.
Change, waiting, difference, memory…I’ve had long, gut wrenching discussions about what is taking place right now. I’ve consulted everyone I know for clues and advice on how to endure. And now, in just a short while, the reality of departure is unarguably upon me. I will soon surrender to the immutable inclination of real circumstance. That which best describes the preface before a goodbye of this weight is a kind of confounding disorientation that invades the basic awareness of and response to my surroundings (see the Chagall painting). They (the French) must think I’m some kind of mummy or dreadfully depressed, morose type. Heh. Pain, confusion, woe, deprivation, absurdity are all useable terms to describe what I am going through. It’s even as though my body isn’t functioning quite right. Digestion has become slower and my appetite dull. Vision is poor and reflexes are pathetic. Nothing that can be written here can match what is happening, so this is it. I’m moving, back to Chicago to make something good happen and to continue a wonderful relationship. |
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PanoramaMONDAY, OCTOBER 17th, 2005 at 09:13 AMVanessa and I just spent the weekend exploring Nice’s fabulous and not so fabulous sides. A word on its history from Wikipedia: The highlights of the trip go like this: I rarely boast having a favorite painter, but among to Gerhardt Richter, Craig Blakeman, and Mark Benson, I place Mark Chagall as another dear favorite. We got to see a number of his original works here at the Mark Chagall Biblical Museum: As an added bonus, we also visited the Henri Matisse Museum: We saw the most exquisite views of the coastline and ate traditional Nicoise cuisine. This includes Socca (a chick pea and pepper type crepe) and Salad Nicoise, which is a salad with tuna, anchovies, vegetables, eggs, olives, and other lovely treats. We enjoyed bopping around the town, but certainly felt how difficult it was to evade the tourist traps. The beach was gorgeous, and after spending much time near the salt water, one develops a thirst. Such is the perfect opportunity for asshole businesses to raise prices 3 fold. Its incredible the amount of money that is sucked out of people in this area, which is frequented by wealthy British tourists. The service, to boot, is borderline hostile. You can’t even go into a cafe to order plain old water if you are near the main walkway. We made on eattempt to visit a cafe in the said vicinity. I ordered a beer and Vanessa ordered tap water. The waiter angrily indicated that Vanessa had to leave if that was all she wanted and that she simply couldn’t sit beside me, a paying male customer. This is not a joke. I tried to go to the bathroom at some other cafe and was told that I couldn’t perform number two because they don’t allow it. No toilet paper. What a hoot! Anyways, we managed to avoid the worst traps and stay off the beaten trail. The views from the park atop the main hill were extraordinary. It was worth the voyage just for this delightful vista. You can see me posing in front of the said view in this picture. Feel free to print it out and use it as a postcard. You can entice people with my sexy glare. In more serious news, I’m coming home soon. The well has run dry and I’m having serious RP withdrawal. |
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Profound Stall?THURSDAY, OCTOBER 13th, 2005 at 05:40 AMWords from the WC: La vie est courte
Universite de Provence Bathroom, 2005 And one more: Nous sommes noirs
Universite de Provence Bathroom, 2005 |
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Nonsensical? Ranting, Raving, Confessing, Describing: A Response to JohnWEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 12th, 2005 at 08:13 AM
This entry is a response to a comment made by someone named John. I appreciate it immensely and had the following thoughts to offer: John, I thank you sincerely for this comment and I must concur that Augustine’s observation is rather “aproposito.” Do I know you John? I want to uncover the mystery of who you are, but I also respect your anonymity if you prefer it that way. Anyways, the slapdash settlement of the heart into its destiny, albeit a mundane end or one that is divine, is such that I guess I am stumbling towards. But it is even before I look to the cosmos that I look to the other, having seen the gravity in peoples’ eyes, having seen a glimpse of their souls that is rendered when we come together. In the reality of communion with others I hope to take my first step towards a kind of harmony or synchronization with the world and perhaps, if this process is to be the essential stepladder, to the higher places. But I know there is a grand work to be done before I can give the clearest version of my love to the world. Onto the darkness of my solitude or source of my creepy impulses or source of my beauty, where I am my worst, a perfectly naked thing, sometimes a hero, sometimes a villain, a sadist, or even a monster. Into this realm I build a bridge so that I may have an opportunity to make my adjustments, my improvements: a synthesis of fear and longing, a dialectic between desperation and hope. It is from these depths that I seek to reemerge to bring love or a meaningful upsurge of personality that is wholly and sincerely wrought from the primordial stuff of my being. But all the while I feel the indisputable compulsion to be in the world, I don’t want to miss a single turn of the clock. I feel then that I must participate as a lover, a friend, or a servant. I often try to remember the work that must be done within myself before I can give the world the greater, more refined thing I have to offer. Rilke, dearest to me among my favorite poets, says this that moves me so (excuse the redundancy if you’ve heard it before): “It is also good to love: because love is difficult. For one human being to love another human being: that is perhaps the most difficult task that has been entrusted to us, the ultimate task, the final test and proof, the work for which all other work is merely preparation. That is why young people, who are beginners in everything, are not yet capable of love: it is something they must learn. With their whole being, with all their forces, gathered around their solitary, anxious, upward-beating heart, they must learn to love. But learning-time is always a long, secluded time ahead and far on into life, is -; solitude, a heightened and deepened kind of aloneness for the person who loves. Loving does not at first mean merging, surrendering, and uniting with another person (for what would a union be of two people who are unclarified, unfinished, and still incoherent - ?), it is a high inducement for the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world, to become world in himself for the sake of another person; it is a great, demanding claim on him, something that chooses him and calls him to vast distances. Only in this sense, as the task of working on themselves (“to hearken and to hammer day and night”), may young people use the love that is given to them. Merging and surrendering and every kind of communion is not for them (who must still, for a long, long time, save and gather themselves); it is the ultimate, is perhaps that for which human lives are as yet barely large enough.” I happen to think that this is a kind of work that has no end. I think we suffer because deep down within ourselves we know this work must be done each day of our lives (if possible). For some reason I am reminded of these Eliot lines: His soul stretched tight across the skies I am moved by fancies that are curled But not to get off track, because I’m pretty sure this a reference to Christ, however, it may have a pertinent application here and I’m not completely sure where I am going anyway (hell it’s a blog). There is something about the acknowledgement of our deficiencies and the fact that we can respond to them that informs our suffering. Its not just being flawed, but also knowing that we can do something in response to these flaws and, for some indescribable reason, we simply don’t. It is in this state of idleness that I know some suffering presses itself onto my heart. This awareness for me is the kernel of a bad conscience; it is the propulsion of anxious sentiment and an “on switch” that causes nerves to jitter. It is in my most anxious moments that what I must do becomes so clear to me: seek out the root of the root, the bud of the bud, the nucleus of my distress, of my existence…have a dialogue with it, ask it all questions, examine its properties, make peace with it. I know Heidegger says this about anxiety: “In anxiety, we say, “one feels ill at ease [es ist einem unheimlich].” What is “it” that makes “one” feel ill at ease? We cannot say what it is before which one feels ill at ease. As a whole it is so for him. All things and we ourselves sink into indifference. This, however, not in the sense of mere disappearance. Rather in this very receding things turn toward us. The receding of beings as a whole that closes in on us in anxiety oppresses us. We can get no hold on things. In the slipping away of beings only this “no hold on things” comes over us and remains. Anxiety reveals the nothing.” But in this anxious instance I have found the release, of which I have dreamt and realized, from this oblivion I have found the crucial impetus to reach into the nauseatingly ambiguous and enigmatic epicenter of my consciousness. I may have found delusion, but nevertheless, enough insight to have enabled me to maintain that which is most important to me: my love for humanity, my potentially unending ability to forgive both myself and others, to hate for so long and to release it, to have venom in my veins and feel it fade away like it never happened. Never have I been so well acquainted with the details of my life, with the history of my heart and its needs, as when I have been in the throws of anxiety. So, John, I’m not sure what I’m trying say except that before I can feel myself worthy of the stars, I can’t help but feel that I need to bring up the best of myself to tend to that which is before me: this disastrous miracle of earthly life.
Primo Levi’s Periodic Table Also, I can’t stop listening to Galaxie 500.
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Wholly to be a fool…WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 12th, 2005 at 04:49 AMI’m at the library here in Aix-en-Provence, struggling to reclaim a sense of myself while trying to map out the rest of my time here in Europe. I think vanessa and I are going to Nice this weekend. Anyways, as soon as I started checking train times and flight costs, I ended up becoming sidetracked and began pondering all the momentous things that have occurred in the past few weeks. It certainly feels like my current awareness is evading the dense sense of myself I usually carry. In one moment, I can say that I like this novel feeling. In another instance, I feel a tidal rush of bewilderment and, ultimately, sorrow overcomes me. It is difficult to be here. Its even more difficult to mitigate my impulses to stabilize myself. Walking through the streets I somewhat feel like the cat-mime in this picture, a sight that elicits strange glances and curiously creepy ogles. I wish I didn’t have this much trauma right now and could simply take this ride. On the contrary, I suppose everything is as it should be and this kind of trauma is a necessary event that simply pushes me toward a destiny. I always carry this quote with me too: “The tragic loans before us as an event that shows the terrifying aspects of existence, but an existence that is still human. It reveals its entanglement with the uncharted background of man’s humanity. Paradoxically, however, when man faces the tragic, he liberates himself from it. This is one way of obtaining purification and redemption. Breakdown and failure reveal the true nature of things. In failure, life’s reality is not lost; on the contrary, here it makes itself wholly and decisively felt. There is no tragedy without transcendence.” -Karl Jaspers I’m also in love with this poem: Andiamo a letto
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Being an issue..wine as a way of life.MONDAY, OCTOBER 10th, 2005 at 10:09 AMIt is truly a challenge to gather up and then convey the totality of what I am feeling right now. First off, my sense of time is really mystified. I am also constantly suppressing the urge to come home. I’ve no shame in this admission. Each day I reassess my feeling about time and the capricious way it passes over me. It seems utterly absurd that in one moment I am in shock because I’ve been in Europe for only two weeks and the next moment, it really feels as though hardly any time has passed. I feel as though awareness of my surroundings surges through me painfully and wonderfully. I’ve an extensive catalogue of events in my head, but when I sit to divulge the contents, all I find is longing for house and home and a life that included my darling. By the way, I am constantly daydreaming about home and friends, family and places. The familiarity of where I come from haunts me sometimes and if I get too lost in it, I return to the European reality utterly toppled and baffled. So, I try to the best of my ability to stay in the moment, engage all that is unfolding around me, one task at a time, and one sight at a time. Its just by virtue of being here that a sense of myself is constantly called to question, revised, and replanted. Ascertaining what is happening injects trauma and awe, leaves me flustered and finally renders a constant state of questioning: why am I here? I know ist for my love, my growth, but its powerful medicine and asking the questions is simply the condition of day to day. I thnk a periodic revision of one’s reality is generally good, but I’m also going broke over here as Europe has gotten hella expensive. I am, by the way, in France now, and I miss Italy and my wine already. It’s funny because Southern France is breathtaking, but it really does not deviate too much from the Mediterranean vibe of my Roma. I haven’t been drinking my wine either, so I decided to post this picture of me tasting some of the juice that came from the grapes we picked. In this state, the liquid is fermenting and tastes sort of dodgy. The moment you see me drinking it here, it’s not yet wine, but one can taste a strange weirdness commingled with the sugars of the grapes. The uva are evolving, synthesizing themselves into their destiny and headed to daddy’s belly. I want the wine to be my sedative, to accompany me through the awkwardness of life, to enhance the joy of it, to wash my insides. The beautiful part is that when the right amount of wine is incorporated into one’s life, a mystical thing occurs, something far outside of abuse, more like a disabuse for an elixir as revelator.
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Vai via…MONDAY, OCTOBER 10th, 2005 at 09:54 AMWell, the vendemmia at Cerreto Libri is now finished. On Saturday morning, I wandered off from this magical place feeling a total sense of achievement, joy, and alienation. I made my way to Southern France via train. The final dinner at the Fattoria was, like the rest of the meals, an obscene feast. There were also swells of emotion as we said our goodbyes, such that were accompanied by a tacit feeling that many of us would never see each other again. I my heart, I was glad that the owners of the joint were very pleased with our work and applauded our efforts. All in all, we pulled almost 10 metric tons of grapes, mostly Sangiovese. The work we did usually pays about 8 Euros an hour, but considering the lodging and all the food, I think it truly was an even exchange. More importantly, each side was so sincerely given to the arrangement in an honest and generous way, that I felt we were equally enriched. I wish you could all taste the fabulousness that is this Chianti Ruffino. Unfortunately, I was only able to leave with 3 bottles of wine and they are weighing me down as it is. On that note, lugging my gear and having worked like a horse has left my body feeling drained. My hands are also filthy with dirt having settled into every crevasse. Like the dirt to my hands, the wine has seeped into my being. I love wine and want to drink it all the days. Its funny, as much wine as we drank on the farm, I never really felt inebriated, just easy and open. |
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SurrealityTUESDAY, OCTOBER 04th, 2005 at 01:45 PMWell, I actually have an opportunity to relax and write as opposed to being so hurried like before. I got a wireless signal up and running here at Cerreto Libri and I have to say that its quite interesting to blog in my Mac, taking breaks to look up at the Tuscan hills. Today, as I was tossing grapes into the separating machine, watching crazy old Italians flail and be rustic, talking with this cool German guy Micah between the grape tosses, I realized that everything about my reality is completely surreal, marginally absurd with a dash of romantic charm. We worked overtime today because the weather finally let up and the sun pushed through. It was exceedingly muddy and this made the work more difficult, more grueling, demanding my strength and perseverance. We worked from 8:30 to 1:30 and then ate an amazing feast that consisted of baked pumpkin, pancettta (crudo), olive oil (made here on the farm of course and yes we pour it all over EVERYTHING including my body) and a sauce that consisted of sautéed red and yellow peppers, much garlic, fresh rosemary (grown here and plucked from a bush just outside the dining room, and onions. Divine I say. Dessert? Chestnut torte with roasted pine nuts. I wish I could tell you all what each meal consisted of because it’s a marvel. Lets just say I’m not losing any weight and as you can see from the photo, the sun has effected my appearance. “One doesn’t discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time.” So in this vein, I felt a liberating moment when I took my shirt off today. I like the Tuscan sun on my back; the bugs not bothering me or making me feel icky like the first few days. I offered my heart and nakedness to this land and felt no shame or apprehension. I’m moody, like I want nothing more to be alone, but then I get pulled into a profound conversation thus pushing the limits of my Italian and sucking my passion. These people deserve every ounce. Ma sto cerchando, il mio corpo resto qui… I like this quote because it’s hitting me in the gut: I will praise thee, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Marvelous are thy works that my soul knoweth right well. Psalm 31 (don’t worry I’m not going fundy) but I am fearful, I am occasionally wonderful, I am made, and I love you. D |
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Uva Bianca, Un altra settimana…MONDAY, OCTOBER 03rd, 2005 at 02:59 PMIt goes and goes…I’m lost in a sea of grapes, mud, smiles, food, MORE FOOD, and fire. Its spectacular here. We may finish with the harvest by Friday, but there has been a steady downpour threatening this schedule. But we are enjoying ourselves. this picture features me working alongside Maurizio, or “chairman Mao” as I like to call him. he is a native Florentine who is teaching me the proper way to “fare la raccolta.” These people, of whom I will try to post more pictures of, are gems of the hearth whose resplendent hearts emit pure natural positivity and light. I see gravity, I see history in their eyes, sincerity and delight… contentment. Its just fantastic. Much love to all…. I can receive e-mails here: dferri@luc.edu |
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Vado a prendere uva…FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 30th, 2005 at 02:45 PMI am well, but this is no easy holiday man. I am working my ass off. We have harvested nearly 2 tons of Sangiovese and Cannioala grapes. I have lifted most of these crates (cassetti) into a giant and antiquated seperating machine. The grapes then travel into a huge cantina where tehy will sit d ferment for a year to 3 years. The fermentation has already begun on the first field we pruned. I am working with fntastic people and may return here for teh olive harvest…I know DB and I like him..he cool. I do not listen to much music out here because, well, you just gotta listen to the music of teh hills. Its certainly overwheming to be here, but I feel more and more comfortable working with these people. The meals we share are mond blowing. I mean, old Tuscan cuisine is an assault of color and falvor you can never truly experience unless you come here and eat in thi sexact kitchen. There are two older Tosacn men named Faustino and Sylvano (Sylvano had a finger ripped out when he fell off a roof and Faustinos hand was mauled in wine press which equals 2 fully functioning hands and 2 dudes that do more work than I ever could in my most productive dream). My Italian is rusty but coming along, its more natural for me to converse and exchange basic sentiments with each new day. This harvest will be done, we hope by next Saturday. Its incredible and I look to post more pictures very soon. Love to all who read this. |
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Il ViaggioTUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 27th, 2005 at 02:32 PMDay 1 On the plane I endured the customary restlessness of nauseating coach confinement, such that demands every ounce of my poise and ability to concentrate on that, which is happening as opposed to the fallacies in my stricken brain. On the plane I managed to calm myself down with some bad Hollywood films and some Swedish cognac. The flight arrived on time in Stockholm at 9 in the morning or 2am Chicago time. I wandered around the airport for a while, noticing the very minimal and possibly bleak architecture. It was grey; everything was grey about it, the sky, and the stone, even the fields nearby. I had myself a coffee and ducked into the miniscule smoking lounge (we are talking TINY) and smoked with 12 Japanese men in complete silence. I made my connecting flight to Milano on time and during the flight I sat beside a young man who was en route to beginning a years worth of studying at some design school in Milan. He was utterly out of touch with were he was and was possibly in shock. I think I helped him as I discussed the time I spent studying abroad and disclosed some advice for how to cope. I also made him drink a beer with me. I hope he made it to his dorm. He said he’d never forget me. Finally arriving in Milano, I was greeted by Gabriele and his lady friend Firenza. They escorted me to their apartment. On the way, we experienced awful traffic because apparently (my Italian is rusty, but I think I get it) a terrorist was holding up by the trains, threatening to detonate a bomb and the police came in to block the sector of the city that he occupied. It was just one political radical saying he was a terrorist rather than being an actual terrorist. It seemed like a big deal was made over a rather innocuous matter. I’m in Italy now. Gabriele and I set out to activate my cell phone and so began a little spin around the city “un giro.” It was lovely and though it wasn’t my first time in Milano, it was still novel in every way. It’s so exciting to see Italians doing their thing, being fashionable parading there sensibilities, being ridiculous and trendy. After we activated the phone we sat and had a glass of vine, relaxed and made our way back to the apartment. Firenza made a lovely risotto that consisted of rare mushrooms and a fine parmigiana cheese. It was absolutely delicious. I fell asleep around 10 o’clock and woke up in the middle of the night, feeling so out of sorts. I just couldn’t process where I was and what I was doing. I guess I wanted to be alone, but in heart wanted more so to be comfortable and in the arms of my darling. Alessandria is a charming, inviting place and an old industrial center. Its claim to fame is the old Borsolino hat factory, which is now, of course, defunct. I met some of Gabriele’s friends. They all speak of punk rawk with an astounding command of the genre. There is nothing like talking about Fugazi with Italian folks as they express their undying love for the music I too love endlessly.
Okay so I’m totally ecstatic having reclaimed a sense of complete and utter excitement having arrived in such a stunning place, so novel and fresh. The real inspiration is the vista here at Cerreto Libri. My god, have you ever really seen Tuscany in its entire splendor? The hills are green and plump, the sky is bright with lucid stars and the smell is some intoxicating coalescence of burning leaves, chestnuts, wine, and fertile earth. Even the cats and dogs walk around contented. I’m happy I am hear and I’m so utterly excited about what my first day of work is going to be like. We awaken at 7:30 and begin work at 8:30. I can’t even fathom what the rhythm of this work will entail. If it is anything resembling the accommodations and the people, it will be unforgettable. We have quite a cast of characters on this farm. I can’t help but feel like this is a reality TV show. Work I am becoming more and more comfortable with this place. It is still surreal. The meals are overwhelming. We all help prepare them and clean afterwards. During the day, two old Tuscan loonies come to help on the farm: Faustino and Sylvano. They are so robust and young at heart, walking dichotomies with their chewed up hands and missing fingers. Working with them sort of evokes a drive to please them, as you can plainly see that the vineyard is the purpose of their existence. I like being around people whose faces tell the story of a life of devotion to something so pure and honest. |