Changing Temples Pt. 22 Music Hath Charms 2nd Movement

Music Hath Powers 2nd Movement

There was a time when I could write like a banshee with certain music playing – I could, quite literally, not stop the subconscious, or what ever that is inside of us speaking and seeking outlet; that flow of mind or soul or heart straight through a pencil onto the page. I cannot describe it accurately. It flowed out without stop, without censor, without the necessity for grammar. I wrote some interesting poetry and letters that way. Now some four plus decades later, the same thing can happen with just the right melody or tune or what ever it is that defines the nature of a song that compels the words to come out like water out of a hose. It closes down the censor, as I call it, and lets nothing but feeling or heart or soul or slop come out. Don’t stop that music!

Vanity Fair: ‘Hitchin’ a Ride’, Moody Blues: ‘Ride My SeeSaw’. In the old days I would lift up the record player stylus and put it down again and again and again just so I could keep writing and see what came forth. Not just so I “could” keep writing really but so that there “would” be an opening of that magic casement from whence unheard, unvisualized, unthought, unimagined treasures of word combinations would flow out in jeweled (or so I thought) strings.

Nowadays, the marvels of modern electronics allow multiple replay with a mere flick of a finger. The right music can still activate that casement – “Open Sesame” works each time. But not with the electronics I have available here and now. The song that just got me going in the old way, the song that gave rise to all this has ended. I was just feeling that old release. Was there depth available? Was there ever really any depth available? What is it in that soul of ours that seeks expression and pretends to depth? Insight? Hardly possible when one looks even slightly askance at that wisdom produced by so many over so many millennium – nothing new to be added there. New variations on the theme? Well, there is some hope there. The theme being of course – at least in this instance – the human condition. That marvel that compels the individual, defines the culture, describes the species. Who are we? Not just as that species but as that individual with desires rampant, mind so engaged that many religions, especially in their esoteric sects, spend their whole essence trying to get us to turn it off, if even for just the briefest of moments. We organize, we memorize, we collectivize, we quantify. We think! We agonize! We contemplate.

Yet, are we all of that merely in response to a recognition that is truly unique to our species – the prescience of death? Not just understanding after it has occurred – elephants have been shown to have a very real cognizance of a death occurrence. But we humans are part and parcel of a condition of temporality realized. I know, so what?

Because the what is that filler we create to add significance. The filler we use to override that horrible rationality that pervades the daylight of modern life and shovels that filler back into some place we can so easily close the door upon. How Keats filled. How Mozart filled. We think it genius. I think it merely some condition of spirit that allowed them to ignore the oppression of the norm, ignore the whole conception that we only pretend at the act of creation. How often have you heard: “I’m not creative”. Bah humbug.

One could say, of course, that we were made “in His image” – so creation is what we do, who we are, and what is to be hallelujahed in us. How many people strive to carve out from the necessities of this oppressive, demanding existence those brief moments of creativity? Think of your mother, your father, your aunt, your sibling – are there not ordinary people of ordinary existence who find a way to create, to seek to outlast temporality. It is not from taking the “long” view but that rare gift of living moment by moment where the mind finally quiets into the task, the censor finally being closeted for an all too brief moment, a moment not of survival but of art – however mean, however common. That is the art that leaps out at you throughout Venice. Countless people took the time – if only to hire someone else who could quiet their mind to let the creative leap out.

So much of political revolution is in response to censorship of thought, word, or deed, or community, or what ever the censor that dominates us finds expedient. Just as in the macrocosm so to in the microcosm. There is a censor that seeks to condition our human condition. Survival it might be. Replication of the species it might be. Responsibility it might be. But censor it is. Go not softly into that dark night. Rebel, I have only my censor to lose. Otherwise, I have a distinct sense that I can count on it marching with me into death, forever talking, forever overriding, forever demanding no until it is too late to recognize its shallowness.

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Changing Temples Pt. 19 – Magical Exceptionality

Magical Exceptionality

I did not know what else to call it but a gift from the Gods – in this case the Roman versions. A fine, life-loving Venetian named Davide, did a much, much better job than I – he called it “the magical side of an exceptional moment”. That moment was an electricity failure. Usually not an event one would categorize as auspicious or a gift from Olympus. That moment was an out door cafe in a broad street of three to four story 16th and 17th Century buildings, green window shutters thrown open to catch even the faintest of breezes on a 93 degree evening with high humidity. The various pastels of the buildings are nicely toned by the soft street lights and ever softening light of day. The cafes all have full tables spread out on either side of the street; one just down the way filled with a family and friends crowd of at least 40. The street is filled with many casual walk-abouts. Everyone is drinking something! The ambient sound is the buzz of laughter and talking, good humored social engagement.

Then, as middle dusk is settling in, the Spritz before me is mellowing my jitters from having just finished a long travel day from Odessa. I remember distinctly my breathing deeply and observing with consciousness yet one more time the deep ambience of Via Garibaldi and thinking about how much I love that particular scene and how much I want to imprint it into my memory. That moment was eliciting a pleasure in my soul that escapes the poet’s best efforts. Then the lights in the long street flickered, flickered and disappeared. All of a sudden, I felt ever so deeply a part of an exceptional out of time moment that returned me to what I believed in my heart Venice of 500 years ago would have been like with her beautiful pastels and greens and marbles highlighted by the fading daylight.

I extricated myself from friends whose interest was in finding artificial light. I wandered abroad in the now early nightfall neighborhoods. Stunned is the only word I have for it. In the last fifteen years or so I utter the word “Wow” when seeing something or hearing something of extraordinary specialness – Titian’s “Assumption of Mary”, Rembrandt’s “Saint Anne”, an exceptional moment where light and flower and shadow combine into absolute beauty. It is not a particularly intelligent expression, but it usually jumps out of my inner self unsolicited, untainted. Occasionally, I will catch myself repeating it because I can find no way of letting the joy loose from my heart. It is a weak, New Age, burned-again hippie kind of word, but it is my way of acknowledging a beautiful Zen moment, of reveling in this beauty that surrounds our daily existence. That street light deprived night was the first time I have ever caught myself saying “Wow” again and again and again and again; the complete sensory overload of antiquity, history, artistic sentiment in marble and mortar and architecture, softness, and ancestral humanity knocked that word out of me over and over again.

This was the Venice experienced by Lord Byron or Albrect Durer or Rousseau or Edward DeVere or Goethe. As I wandered the streets, I felt I was wandering with them, particularly with their sensibilities. Interestingly, our way would be lit by someone with a torch, with a “link boy”, who would be paid a small sum for the task. Shakespeare’s Falstaff makes reference to such a lad when teasing Bardolph about his shining red face: “Thou hast saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt tavern and tavern.” (Henry IV, Pt. 1, Act III, scene 3).

Occasionally people hurry past me, modern link boys, but oblivious to all but their modern torch being used to get to somewhere else. They leave behind them the last twilight showing steps of a bridge inviting one to say “Wow” and to keep walking in the midst of the Ancien RĂ©gime or any period when this city was what it has been for so many hundreds of years.

There was also an additional stillness – no air conditioners, refrigerator condensers, a lessening of foot traffic. Restaurant tables now dotted the way with candles. People were subdued, not so much by the lacking but by the magic of antiquity totally unadorned, unaltered, unfiltered, lighted by the last remnants of day. Windows showed the flickering of candles finally able to cast their shadows in complete abandon. A woman sits on a bench in a now near dark Campo. I am totally in the middle of the hundredth “Wow”, so I say, “Fantastico, Non?” “Yes”, she replies in English, “it is extraordinary”. How tempted I was to sit and share with this stranger who understood and who could speak English! But I did not want the apprehension of a strange man to unsettle such a divine moment; on I walked.

While I happen to cherish my own Romanticism, I think it is fair to ask whether this was truly such a unique experience aside from the cries of joy and pleasure in my soul? The first power plant in Italy was built in Milan in 1883 for the purpose of illuminating La Scala, the famous Opera House. Soon after, Molino Stucky coverted his giant flour mill in Venice from gas to electricity. The Arc lights used at La Scalla would have been in the range of 2000-3000 candle power. Modern, ordinary street lights are 250-440 candle power while an “ornamental” street light is around 400 candle power. So, for at least one hundred years my romanticism would be misapplied.

The torch light of reality also shows that romantic misapplication for many hundreds more years. According to one source, the oldest system of street lighting in the world was established in Venice during the 12th century. The Doge declared the lighting of the streets necessary due to the rash of robberies and murders which were easily carried out in the dark and twisting alleyways of the city. At first devotionals to various Saints held candles at each corner, later followed by oil lamps at the state’s expense. Another source has it that the Arabs had street lamps in Cordoba, Al-Andalus in 1000. Neither source noted the Chinese who, of course, beat everyone, and the word lamp is from the Greek meaning torch, so “lighting” by humans certainly predated even my romantic projections of a “natural” evening.

But I think it fair to say that even a few candles or torches here and there would not have rendered my wild imaginings less romantic during that brief twilight time. All in all I guess it just sheds a little light on something I find more and more convincing as I experience this city. It is best expressed in Davide’s final thought, “we don’t have the quality as humans to forget Venice”.

Continued . . .

Sent from my iPad

Changing Temples Pt. 16 – How ARE You?

“So get the scrivener part of you activated again and tell me clearly –
not poetically – how you are.”
R.E.

I knew intellectually over the years that the characters in fiction were often alter egos of the scrivener – ‘The Portrait of The Artist As a Young Man’, James Joyce, always, always comes immediately to mind. Goodness how my best friend and I loved that book in our poetic, college years. We WERE that young man; we were captured within character. There is hardly a review of that book where the reviewer doesn’t attempt to convince that Joyce was that character. In fact, you can hardly read a review of any fictional work where there isn’t one or another attenuated attempt to show the author is the character.

As a long time writer of poetry, I acknowledge the relative obscurity of alter ego character hidden within the rhythm and the rhyme. To tell clearly “how one is” does not necessarily require the scrivener’s art of prose, but prose makes it a hell of a lot easier for the reader to ferret out the gophers of personality and spirit from those deep word holes in which they lodge.

Ah yes, how difficult it is to find true, real descriptors of the state of one’s heart and soul – even a scrivener’s deep word holes can be, as they say in the West, a dry hole. The real point, despite all these current lapses into poetics, is that the telling and describing of the state of one’s being (“how ARE you?”), clearly – not poetically, goes straight to the heart of vulnerability. It is a task fraught with the terrible truth of neediness, desire, frustration, immaturity, and, most critical of all, a too bright light shed upon the very reason writers create fictional characters – so that they can parade without hesitation those marching bands of discordancy, those clowns of childish needs, those floating representations of idealism, romanticism, and unobtainable or frustrated desires: pretty girls, tantalizing bosoms that modern costume has so graciously gifted to the male of the species, yachts, 1928 Mercedes Benz SSK Roadsters, Palazzos on the Grande Canale, a U.S. Senator’s seat, Granite Park Chalet at my personal disposal, etc, etc. (I’m sure you can fill in your own personal life-blanks quite nicely.)

I cannot tell others how I am without poetics. I lack the courage. I lack the cover of fiction, that gauzy curtain that allows suspension of disbelief – for I want those I know to believe in me, to believe in that part of me that is good and whole and kind and good humored and normal. After all, what real benefit is there in baring those aspects of personal being that are not the better angels of my nature? For, without a more than adequate suspension of disbelief, that other part of me, that bareness of soul, of how I am (and who I am) would, I fear – and I think all fiction writers fear – lead to condemnation, distancing, complacent bemusement, and a cleverly disguised demeanor of pity.

Oh, I know the endless litany about “those who love you” would accept you; such sureness in that contention. A sureness around which my skepticism swirls; a skepticism that has some powerful history of several thousand years of writers who are also skeptical and who created characters to reveal that which must have the distancing of the comedic, the tragic, and the narrative epic. In other words, are we so truly accepting of the stark naked homo sapiens sapiens – especially a skinny one? 🙂 “Yet, even so, he was very, very unwilling that any other eye should see him naked, see him exposed as a helpless tormented lover, a nympholept furiously longing for what was beyond his reach” Patrick O’Brien, ‘The Fortunes of War’.

Carl Jung said – and forgive me for not having precision here, but I have his deep intent, that I know – “True adult maturity is when we give up the things of the child”. “Things” are, of course, exceptionally universal: desires, wants, needs, hopes, despairs, frustrations, deep longings, deep angers and, especially, deep hurts – I like to describe it with a wonderful metaphor. Each of those (desires, wants, needs, hurts . . . ) is a barnacle that has fastened itself to our ship of being. As such, the accumulation, and God knows how much accumulation of barnacles I have, impedes passage through this life. Impedes in ways that can be so obscure to our own understanding, our own consciousness, that we have, as Jung would say, character aberrations, personality flaws, psychic maladjustments that further again impede us – the damn barnacles reproduce! And prolifically!

How am I? Well, impeded with all of that and more. Does anyone outside the self really want to view such stark nakedness? What is the value? I know, there is said to be therapy in self-revelation (“At times it seemed to him that candour was as essential as food or affection”. Patrick O’Brien, ‘Fortunes of War’), but, hell, that presumes so much, so very much.

Want to know how I am? I am sad that that ultimate harbor we call death is now just around the headland, and I can neither let go of the things of the child nor live contentedly with them, Zen models notwithstanding. Ah yes, impediments, what else is new in the human condition?

For aren’t we all deeply comedic in our weak neediness? Aren’t we all deeply tragic in our universal desire to have everything of the child satisfied, every whim of the child gratified. We have acculturated ourselves to accept denial, we have adopted that thin veneer of civilized acceptance of responsible behavior, but we want, oh how we want! Well, I think what we want is that others do not see such want; that damn pacifier hanging out of the mouth of a 64 year old is not a pretty sight. So, in response to “how ARE you”, you get acculturated application of veneer. I may be doing us both a favor.

R.E., I cannot tell you how I am without poetics. If there is the Great American Novel in everyone, then perhaps I will find those characters that, in composite, tell you how I am. In the mean time be patient with that altogether strange, barnacle impeded course I chart through life. And continue to ask, please, for, who knows, I may find a dry dock and clean the hull sufficiently enough that I can tell you truly how I am. I tend to think that will certainly happen but only in that particular dry dock which lies in that “undiscovere’d country, from whose bourn no traveller returns”.

Continued . . .

Changing Temples Pt. 12 – Deportation Pt. 2

Changing Temples – Deportation, Pt. 2: The Anatomy of Panic

Grab your coat and get your hat
Leave your worries on the doorstep
Life can be so sweet
On the sunny side of the street
On The Sunny Side of the Street, 1930

There is a form of incipient panic in travel that I cannot but dread. Particulars: Because my Deportation Avoidance Behaviors were all undertaken within two hours – beginning at about 7:45 a.m. and me across Venezia and on the train by 9:12, there were things that had to give. No soap and shampoo with me. The little apartment I have in Pula has WiFi and nice space, but no soap or shampoo!

It also happens to be in the middle of suburban nowhere in Pula. A consequence of having to use an Internet cafe half way through the journey to try to get a reservation in advance. Foreign computer and internet usage is mostly . . . well, foreign. While the clock is ticking up Euros, you are trying to figure out which combination of keys will give you the @ sign. Seems simple, but I can tell you from the perspective of Costa Rica and here (my two experiences), it is not!

As I mentioned, the booking company map showed 4+ miles to city centre, which distance, of course, was only genuinely visible after booking. The landlords’ son speaks reasonable English and barely explained how to find the city bus but a great job of explaining which bus number to take. He failed to mention that the bus number coming back is not the same!

So, thanks to a nice fellow sitting by the side of his house this a.m., I found the bus stop. Thanks to very friendly fellows at the bus stop, I got off at the right spot. One of them, Swedish by some connection, so with a grasp of English, took the time to show me the bus stop to find when I was ready to return. He then proceeded to walk about with me to orient me. That was such a nice gesture. In part, however, it got me a little panicked about truly NOT being oriented, because we were making turns upon turns and he was using a vocabulary of one-third English to say “you can’t miss it”.

When I am faced with a totally unknown city (my iPad maps would be wonderful, but I do not have a Data Plan for Croatia – especially for 3 days) and only one orientation point for getting myself back to where I am sleeping, my pattern is to do a slow, circular or perpendicular walk about to get familiar.

At any rate, this friendly soul left me at a spot where I had some comfort about a return route, so I walked on thinking that the Roman Amphitheater this town is famous for would be near the water. Sure enough.

So, I whiled away the day (the Adventure of the Amphitheater is the subject of another edition). I decided I would eat an early supper to try to get the best time advantage in finding my way back to my abode.

But, incipient in the background was this panic about where I was to actually exit the bus on my return. It would have helped if I hadn’t had what appears to be the latest in an increasing number of moments of inadvertence on the inbound bus. When I sat down on the bus, but, limited seat availability notwithstanding, I completely forgot that I am supposed to somehow identify this one particular suburban bus stop within the repetitive, unidentifiable sameness of the streets and surroundings. I sit down “going backwards”, not the best for instilling something in memory about landmarks. Several blocks on I remembered what I was supposed to be about. Good luck. This suburb is like every other you have ever seen (especially one that, according to the landlord son, was all built in the last three years), winding streets not well marked. Everything looks alike. I took the kind fellow’s advice and got off at the spot recommended. But I recognized niente! I did not see the bus stop I had used in the a.m. The uphill street looked promising or memorable, but who the hell knows.

There was a nice old lady passing by. I showed her my address on a piece of paper (why try to pronounce a language I can’t). Sure enough she said the uphill street. Here I am. Unnecessary incipient panic, but only in retrospect. I have been in many a situation where it was not nearly as seamless. Dare I tell you about this time in Berkeley CA, full bladder, full failure to take any replica of the address, the phone number, or anything, and taking the wrong exit out of the subway?

Continued . . .

Changing Temples Pt. 11

Changing Temples Pt. 11
Deportation Avoidance Behaviors

“I am trying to move on to Italy as soon as possible as I hate this Catholic country with its hundred races and thousand languages. . . . Pola is a back-of-God-speed place—a naval Siberia . . . . Istria is a long boring place wedged into the Adriatic peopled by ignorant Slavs who wear little red caps and colossal breeches.” James Joyce

I am in violation of the Shengen Agreement! There is no perfect remedy for my violation, only a thin veneer of fakery. I can apply that veneer by going to England or to Croatia (or any country outside of the EU zone). Even that is not entirely accurate for I can come into total, acceptable compliance by just going back to America for 90 days before I can “legally”come back to the EU – which means Venezia to me of course. At this point I do not want to go home, let alone for 90 days. Croatia is closer than England and the transit cheaper, so I am escaping to Croatia.

I am escaping, as will be revealed in more detail below, very much like Bilbo Baggins running off without his pocket handkerchief and other things an altogether complacent Hobbit or human might need. In my case, no maps, an iPad choosing this moment to be completely balky with Internet connection, absolutely no idea of which town I should go to, only the intent to avoid a Shengen Agreement expulsion, fine, and embarrassment.

Perhaps if I work backward this will make some sense. By 9:12 a.m. this morning I had gotten out of bed (a major undertaking), exercised, packed, eaten breakfast, taken a Vaporatto Boat across Venezia, purchased a train ticket to Trieste (at the far Eastern part of the boot top of Italy), and was on the train to Trieste. From there Croatia is close – I cannot tell you how close at this point remember because I have no map and no Internet!

Where did all this start? To really show the instantaneous nature of the intent to be in this train seat at this time of day, I refer to last night’s dinner – which given custom and circumstance did not begin until 9:45 p.m.! I had asked a fellow from the ExPat Group if he would have a rational discussion with me about the “length of stay” issues in Italy. The she of the them is from the US. The he of them is Veneziano by birth, trained and admitted to the law in Italy, the UK, and New York. They have worked their way through all the issues regarding extended stay – all to say I could expect a very rational discussion.

It was way too rational! I had been just drifting along with regard to stay limits thinking because of the official Italian web site I had consulted that I was good for six months. He proceeded to outline the Shengen Agreement – which in short provides that someone from the US can ONLY be in the EU (that is, anywhere in the EU) for 90 days out of 180. I knew my passport had not been stamped or examined by Italian immigration, but I was not sure if it had been stamped by Swiss authorities when the porter took all the passenger passports on the overnight train from Paris to Venezia. At dinner we did not know, as one does not risk the carrying of their passport during everyday activities. But, given the actions of the train porter, it was likely.

The gist of the consult was go to Croatia, try to add a Croatian stay that might be veneered into 90 days just by having the most recent passport stamp be from a non-EU country. Croatia joins the EU on July 1 this year.

Sure enough, this morning I looked and my passport had been stamped on March 5th. By even the most charitable of calculations, as of today I am in violation of the Shengen Agreement. Thus, I am on my way to an unknown Croatian destination. I am hoping the cellular data network will work in Trieste – it will not be any good in Croatia at any rate (all country specific here). All this because I like Venezia, and want to stay for awhile!

I had some recall of my friends saying Poula or something of the sort. In the Trieste train station there were maps for sale. I looked at the cover of several and saw that Pula was indeed closest and near the sea. One bus ticket later, and off I go to find a WiFi spot since my cellular still refuses to give the necessary signal – it gives a signal, but not 3G and thus incapable of connection. Bars and cafes go by in succession. No WiFi signs. I begin to ask, each and everyone refers me to what I translate as an Internet store. After wandering (with bag, of course), I found, used, and got a reservation for lodging, as I am very disinclined to arrive in a strange place late, 5 p.m. in this instance – particularly a popular resort by the sea in high season.

Of course, despite the description, the place is four miles plus from the bus station. Gotta love it.

Continued . . .

Changing Temples – The Highwayman Cont.

Changing Temples – The Highwayman
Pt. 9.5.2

This continues the rather prosaic contemplation about life lines – in particular how an iPad can rise to rise to such, lofty, descriptive heights. It can appear a little ridiculous. Bear with me.

What happened, by necessity, was a forced change in world view. Let me describe what I mean. First, one must shed all sense of worldly organization and envision a personal, apartment sized world (in Venezia) without a clock. Yes, my iPad was my watch. A world without a calendar (with two best friends arriving in a few days and no idea of the date, time, flight and no way to contact them, because . . . no iPad). A world without access to financial accounts of any kind. A world without connection with all those people who have promised a Pizza Night, an afternoon tandem language exchange, a trip to the weekly market. A world without all those history notes so laboriously transcribed – and I mean extensive notes on the history of Venezia, Genoa, Firenze, Italy, the Mediterranean. A world without those Blog editions waiting to be edited, finalized, and posted. A world where you can’t even notify Bog readers of what has happened. A world without all those Italian Language Flash cards you individually typed up and which formed a nice adjunct to efforts to learn the language.

Let me focus for a moment on just one of those deprivations. A time piece. Imagine, if the ubiquitous presence of time pieces in our world can ever allow such imagining, no stove clock, no wall clock, no microwave clock, no bedroom clock, no tv channel clock, no wrist clock, niente! Appointments for Pizza or Market or anything else are meaningless without having some idea beyond “it’s morning” or “it’s afternoon”. I even went so far at one point as to go to an ATM and take out 20 Euro just so I could see the time on the receipt!

The initial shock of the loss was quite powerful – long before all the consequences outlined above had become realizations. Two things unfolded. First, I reasonably accepted the reality. It opened an abyss that the above life line discussion only hints at, but not like canyon sized abysses I have known in the past. Outward Bound taught me a terrific life lesson – when you are pressed to the limit physically, psychologically, and emotionally, future pressure along those lines do not phase one because they do not (at least as yet they haven’t) ever rise to that level of demand.

Second, thanks to the dear ExPat friend I was with when the highwayman struck, I was able to email my dear daughter Hannah to order and bring with her on her impending visit a new life line.

Third, I know there was only supposed to be two, but this was a trauma situation!, I undertook to return to my wonderfully helpful, “local” internet connection businessman (Gianni) to find out how to cancel the internet connection so as to limit the damage. Not unexpectedly in such a situation, I was told I had to take the Vaporatto back to the very area I had just left 40 minutes ago to do that task. I did so.

Fourth, I went back to Gianni, as I had a vague memory of his “selling” internet time a.k.a. an “internet cafe”. Yes, indeed. So, I was able to write and ask the arrival time/day of my friends – one wouldn’t want to miss that plane.

There is more to this though than the gory details of psychic consequences. When one is required (“forced”) to loose “connection” with all that is “outside”: family, friends, time, finance, blossoming community, news, commitments, one – at least this “one” – is forced to ask why am I here (in Venezia)? What does Wayne want? the answer to that opens such vulnerability of heart, I can hardly address it.

I am sitting, as I write this, eating Spaghetti alla Bersoni con scampi and listening to the owner sing and play his guitar. No other restaurant in Venezia, that I know of, has an owner who loves to sing. The other day with Hannah, he was joined by his sister. What a marvel. When the Italian members of the crowd begin singing along, i felt things more important than lifelines. What is critical or important about a life line may in fact be dependent on the gypsy’s reading of it. This gypsy was forced to read anew.

There is more though. The sense that Montaigne, Edward DeVere, Henry III of France, Casanova, all came with only their personal accomplishments and “status”. Though it might be unfortunate that this particular plebeian in 2013 carries little of that, nevertheless, there is the one thing left – that which is the ultimate character description of Casanova by the way – the power of personality, the willingness to grab what ever thin thread Fate casts one’s way; to flesh out from the thinnest threads of Fate a present life, made significant however, by all that results from that willingness. Casanova was a man who rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell. (socially, financially, and in terms of his actual freedom – he was thrown into the Doge’s Prison at the top of the Palazzio Ducale in Venezia for a little daliiance with a Senator’s daughter). He was dedicated, totally devoted to giving everything to the moment, be that moment rescuing the above Senator from a health crises or be that moment the particular woman he was with. And so, I too was left with only who I am and what I could make significant without electronics.

It should be added, finally, that the next “first” thing I did was go into “Il Bodegon”, a Via Garibaldi all-purpose store and buy an interesting, Italian version of a pad of paper upon which to write this homage to a highwayman for later transcription. In so many ways, I was required to return to my roots where the keyboard was an old Underwood, sadly lacking in the letter “e” or, merely, a pen and paper.

Continued . . .

Changing Temples – Highwaymen Cont.

Changing Temples
Pt. 9.5.1

And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
The Highwayman, Alfred Noyes

I once knew someone who could quote the Highwayman verbatim. Anyone who has even a smidgen of memory capacity impresses me, given the length and nature of that poem, I was very impressed. That poem is decidedly a Romantic take on highwaymen.

In the latter part of the 1500s, a man named Thomas Coryeat (he who coined the term “Grand Tour” to describe the “education” and “culture” a person – usually a man – would attain by traveling to Venice, Rome, etc.) was traveling over the French/Italian Alps. Up until the late 1700s, such a journey meant you took horses to the bottom of the Pass, then you were carried in a sedan chair hoisted by four men up to the top of the Pass where you transferred to another chair carried by four different men and carried down the Italian side. I have read reports where even one’s carriage was dismantled, carried up and over, then reassembled.

Coryeat and his companion were somewhere in the lower French Alps when they were set upon by a band of five or six highwaymen. The leader of the band could not, it appeared, take it upon himself to rob “gentlemen”, so he sent them on their way. Then he sent two of his men by round-about-ways to waylay Coryeat and then steal his money and belongings. Coryeat was of the mind that the leader could only steal from them when he wasn’t present, thus preserving his sense of gentlemanliness.

Perhaps it is the patina of age and circumstance, but Coryeat’s adventure, I think you will agree, carries with it a certain Romantic character.

A fellow I know here was, literally and figuratively, attacked in Florence last week. One of the two attackers gave him such a blow to the face that he will require oral surgery. He then grabbed the fellow’s smart phone. His companion dug into his shoulder bag and made off with contents which included credit cards, passport, and other important matters. Coryeat had a hard time finding lodging because the innkeepers would not, as we say today, give him credit. My friend has spent hours on the phone with the Indian representatives of various credit card and bank companies trying to cancel, get credit, get cash, etc. He has to travel 3 hours or so to Milan just to get a travel document to get back to England where he must then jump the hoops to get a new passport. I suspect you agree with me that there is little Romantic about that incident.

Well, as much as I would like to cast the adventure of having my iPad stolen in a Romantic light, it was merely a street Highwayman capable of opening the zippers on my shoulder bag in a crowded Calle and extracting my iPad. It was so obviously silly on my part to be vulnerable to that oldest of scams. So, Romantic that I am, I have been cured!

There were some fascinating realities that attended this little incident. All, or most all at any rate, related to what I describe as a lifeline. My first thought when the idea of the iPad as lifeline came to mind was Palm Reading. Mostly dismissed by the rational, skeptical, empirical, juggernaut that comprises the world view largely dominating modern perspective; marginalized and trivialized for similar reasons, Palm Reading has an ancient pedigree. The “lifeline” in Palm Reading was the interpretation of those creases upon each palm which are one-of-a-kind in each individual – like finger prints of the overall psychic and spiritual persona. Some life-lines divide and show frustration of life energy, to the extent of possible early death. Some show profoundly long and stable unfolding. Some show . . .

An intravenous tube, a rope to a drowning person, a kindness show to strangers are all representative of a life line. I think often of the kindness to strangers version. Our family was driving along the Going-To-The-Sun Highway in Glacier National Park. For those not familiar, it twists and turns and winds it very steep way along precipitous mountain valleys to reach the Continental Divide and then descends the same way. We were making our way up the Eastern side late in the day when a small sports car came alcohol fueled fast around a corner, lost control, and began to slide sideways toward us. My dad tried to direct our car to the mountain side of the road as opposed to the cliff side. When all was said and done, it was a rather horrible accident. Our car was so close to the edge that doors on that side could not be opened as one would step into oblivion. There we were, four young children and our obviously shook up parents. I remember to this day the car that stopped and the people who emerged from it. It was a nice couple from I do not know where. They immediately set about comforting my mom and we kids. After some hours had passed – Highway Patrol still not in existence, they bundled my Mom and we kids into their small, vacation filled car and drove us for an hour in the opposite direction from where they were going and deposited us at our destination. A life line indeed.

Continued . . .