Right. The original title of this poem, written in around 2000 was indeed 'Dizzy Spell'...'Wisdom Tree' was what I called the collection of poems I included with it for a poetry assignment. I think I changed it when I revived it for another poetry class in 2003/4.
Which do you prefer?
Dizzy Spell
---------------
What does it take to be sure?
Reality behaves like a mime.
Consciousness is covered in dust,
And it's not alone.
Wrong lives too close to right,
Morality is a small child,
Demanding yet naive
And Guilt is its mother.
What does it take to be free?
Society is a train,
Where you pay and behave
And people stare.
Life is too close to death,
Awareness is an unplanted seed.
Indifference is a cliff edge,
Where Sadness built a house.
Want's alias is Jealousy,
Who lives with Greed.
Need sits humbly on the pier
Catching fish.
- Michelle Napolitano 2000
Monday, March 12, 2012
Archives and Block cleared.
This month's blogs will be archives of writing that I created... what seems like an age ago. Wow, that sounds terribly clichè. But, I just discovered a perk of typing on an Italian keyboard. I don't have to click 'insert symbol' and scroll through a little window of accented letters to type clichè. I just type it.
The reason for this burst of insomnia-driven, edgy night spent with a glass of milk at the computer at 23 minutes past 10 'o clock (ooh... burning the candle at both ends and living precariously) is that I have written two short, choppy sort of… well I suppose you could call them ‘random word collections strung together with some kind of sentimental adhesive’ in the past few weeks which is more than what I have written in the last five years, poetry-wise.
This recent explosion of randomness has led me to recall one of my personal favourites – ‘Wisdom Tree,’ which then led me to remember that I, perhaps knowing that this past decade would take me from suburb to suburb and back and across to the other side of the world, thus dozens of folders of printer paper, loose leaf, curly edged torn from spiral exercise books (now known as ‘quaderni’) failed USBs and computer hardrives later… Luckily – LUCKILY I did create a myspace page, including a blog of my preferred old stories and poems, before deserting the space and entering the realm of Facebook. And luckily, they are still in cyberspace. I shall now retrieve them, save them on my super-powered terrabyte triple backed-up network drive and then save them here in this blog as separate entries. I will try to date them.
Then, I might even try to write something new.
But I wrote the following in a Facebook Check-in to ‘Earth’ on FB. Shut-up. The idea to check in to Earth seemed mind-blowing at the time.
Earth
Michelle Napolitano was here.
Michelle Napolitano
check in is everybody in world is small after all are you comfortable in your kin blood is thicker thin as it bleeds sit for what is are SVP never ask shall breathe never die mend seams like restless young youth preserved repeated repeat stark stutters defeat diced reap benefits with edge cliff hold me in metaphors well now now now whose brow is yours now which stock casts stones roll bones dance on head strong order line queue you undo race time check check from being defined preoccopied sigh sigh cut in cut out gather rosebuds sometimes check in check out
Thursday 8th of March 2012 at 22:20 via Mobile • Like
The reason for this burst of insomnia-driven, edgy night spent with a glass of milk at the computer at 23 minutes past 10 'o clock (ooh... burning the candle at both ends and living precariously) is that I have written two short, choppy sort of… well I suppose you could call them ‘random word collections strung together with some kind of sentimental adhesive’ in the past few weeks which is more than what I have written in the last five years, poetry-wise.
This recent explosion of randomness has led me to recall one of my personal favourites – ‘Wisdom Tree,’ which then led me to remember that I, perhaps knowing that this past decade would take me from suburb to suburb and back and across to the other side of the world, thus dozens of folders of printer paper, loose leaf, curly edged torn from spiral exercise books (now known as ‘quaderni’) failed USBs and computer hardrives later… Luckily – LUCKILY I did create a myspace page, including a blog of my preferred old stories and poems, before deserting the space and entering the realm of Facebook. And luckily, they are still in cyberspace. I shall now retrieve them, save them on my super-powered terrabyte triple backed-up network drive and then save them here in this blog as separate entries. I will try to date them.
Then, I might even try to write something new.
But I wrote the following in a Facebook Check-in to ‘Earth’ on FB. Shut-up. The idea to check in to Earth seemed mind-blowing at the time.
Earth
Michelle Napolitano was here.
Michelle Napolitano
check in is everybody in world is small after all are you comfortable in your kin blood is thicker thin as it bleeds sit for what is are SVP never ask shall breathe never die mend seams like restless young youth preserved repeated repeat stark stutters defeat diced reap benefits with edge cliff hold me in metaphors well now now now whose brow is yours now which stock casts stones roll bones dance on head strong order line queue you undo race time check check from being defined preoccopied sigh sigh cut in cut out gather rosebuds sometimes check in check out
Thursday 8th of March 2012 at 22:20 via Mobile • Like
Friday, November 25, 2011
Excerpt from: ~BEING FRANK~ Written by Michelle Napolitano { A WORK IN PROGRESS }
In the foyer, the Christmas tree warmed the atmosphere with its Christmas lights and the soothing scent of pine. I sat next to it and memories poured over me, of our lounge room when I would curl up under the tree and stare up at the branches. The lights and decorations twinkled as I gazed at them, eagerly awaiting the morning; searching for the presents marked with my name. The warm summer night breeze drifted softly through the screen door, and the trees swayed gently outside in the balmy night air. Projections of Christmas Eve flickered in my mind: Santa in red flares and a red, felt overcoat; striding through the group of kids sitting cross-legged on the lounge-room floor. His white beard was not nearly as fluffy as the Santa at the shops – it was quite flat, like a white, wooly blanket. His nose was round and porous with feint scaring on the bridge. When he talked and chuckled, as he called out each gift receiver's name, his teeth looked long and broad, just like Nonna's teeth. One Christmas Eve, Santa stayed for a beer with my Uncles and Aunties. I called out for my father to come and meet Santa – but, as usual, my father was in the toilet with bad stomach pains and possibly 'the runs,' and so he couldn't come out. He was going to miss out on seeing Santa – again. My cousin Lucy and I approached Santa. Lucy, Shirley's daughter, is two years younger than me and stood about 6 inches shorter, with dark blonde hair cut into a dead-straight long fringe and jaw-length bob –identical to my dark brown bob at the time. Her cheeks were freckled and her lips always looked like she was wearing dark pink lipstick. We had short discussions with Santa previously, within the last few years. Well, not so much discussions – they were more like interrogations. The information collected so far was: 1. Santa parked his sleigh on the roof . 2. His reindeers stayed on the roof with the sleigh and did not want to be seen. (Sometimes they were shy and sometimes they were invisible). 3. Santa visited everyone's house in the world on Christmas Eve as well as deliver presents during the night – these great tasks were achieved by pure magic. 4. Even though he parked on the roof, he always arrived through my parent's bedroom door and into the lounge-room. If Christmas Eve was held at my Auntie's house, or Nonno and Nonna's, he would arrive through their bedroom door. This was an unquestioned, accepted fact. This Christmas Eve, Lucy and I were eager to find out why Santa was wearing brown slippers – 'Grosby' brand, just like my father's. Santa paused and stole a few side glances at the other adults at the dining room table. There was a wooden bowl brimming with beer nuts, a wooden platter shaped into a leaf holding an assortment of nuts, dried fruit and pretzels, two ashtrays and several glasses of beer and lemon squash set around their circle. It was the adults table. The kids sprawled over the lounge-room couches, carpet and into the hall; amongst baskets of chips, Barbeque Shapes and plastic cups of soft drink. Santa opened his mouth before any sound came out. "Well, my boots get pretty muddy…so Frank gave me a lend of his slippers, so I don't get mud all over the carpet." Lucy nodded in agreement and I smiled, overjoyed that my Dad had spoken to Santa and even gone so far as to lend him his slippers. Santa rapped his fingertips on the table top. He must have been fixing the sleigh today, because his fingernails had grease under them. Second to that, he was wearing a gold wedding ring… "Santa, why are you wearing my Dad's wedding ring?" I asked. Santa smiled. "He gave me his ring, just to hold it for him while he isn't feeling well." Lucy smiled and nodded. I frowned. I stared at Santa's hand, Dad's ring, his grease-stained finger nails, his strange-looking jacket and flat beard, his nose, his mouth. It may have been the 80s, but it certainly did look out of place for Santa to be smoking Camel cigarettes. This was no Santa. I understood that I shouldn't share this new knowledge with my little cousin Lucy, as she gazed in awe at this pretend Father Christmas. I suddenly realized that every adult knew, my sisters knew and all of my cousins who were older than me knew that this man in red flares and brown slippers was Frank Napolitano; otherwise currently known by my cousins as 'Zio Frank' or 'Zizi Frankie' and known by my sisters and I as 'Papá'. And that mysterious looking plastic bag that Nonna brought to every Christmas Eve was indeed her home-made creation for Santa to wear. At this point, this did not mean that Santa Claus, the man himself, did not exist. It simply made more sense to me that it was impossible for him to visit everyone, so fathers around the world dressed up as him to share the load; and the real Santa stuck to delivering presents for Christmas morning. For every Christmas Eve with my family, it had been my Dad dressed as Santa all along. I was so happy: the two bearers of presents and funny jokes had suddenly been fused into a grinning, brown-slipper king.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
I'm On A Mountain
[Inspired by: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R7yfISlGLNU and facing my fear of walking to the utmost peak of a mountain]
Best read whilst listening to:
The Lonely Island ‘I’m on a Boat’…FIND MP3 @
http://www.sing365.com/music/lyric.nsf/I'm-On-A-Boat-lyrics-The-Lonely-Island/5E9E49DA852420D84825756000135C9F
Dedicated to Samantha, Diarmaid, Mirco and Giuseppe.
Thank you motherfuckers
10/08/2011 – 11/08/2011
I'm On A Mountain
Lyrics by
Artist(Band):The Lonely Island ‘I’m on a Boat’…
Lyrics adapted by: Michelle Napolitano
[Intro (T-Pain)]
(Smelly) Aww shit
Hiking boots ready it's about to go down (yeah, smelly)
Everybody in the place hit the fuckin trail (yeah, smelly)
The chair-lift’s not a fuckin option
We climbin’ this, let's go
[Chorus (T-Pain)]
I'm on a mountain (I'm on a mountain)
I'm on a mountain (I'm on a mountain)
Everybody look at me cause I'm climbin up a mountain (climbin up a mountain)
I'm on a mountain (I'm on a mountain)
I'm on a mountain
Take a good hard look at the motherfuckin mountain (mountain, yeah)
[The Lonely Island (T-Pain)]
We’re on a mountain motherfucker take a look at us
Straight walking up a mountain in the fuckin clouds
Bustin ‘thousand feet, sai? ‘cos the Android’s countin
You can't stop me motherfucker cause I'm on a mountain
Take a picture, trick (trick) I'm on a mountain, bitch (bitch)
We drinkin some German beer, cause it's so crisp (crisp)
I got my hiking sticks, and my hiking stuff
Eatin’ lollies, so my blood sugar doesn’t drop
I'm walkin on a trail, doin skids and shit
This gravel’s rollin and it’s fuckin up my shins
Ain't Sound ‘o Music, this is real as it gets
I'm on a mountain motherfucker, don't you ever forget
I'm on a mountain and, it's fuckin high and
I got a beanie and my sunnies and backpack
I'm the king of the world, on a mountain like a pro
If you're on safe land, then you're sho' not me-oh
{Get the fuck up, this mountain is real}
Fuck level-land, I'm on a mountain, motherfucker (motherfucker)
Fuck paths, I walk rocks, motherfucker (motherfucker)
I'm on the peak with my friends-yo, motherfucker (yeah)
The mountain people say ‘buongiorno’, motherfucker
Hey ma, if you could see me now (see me now)
Arms spread wide on the high peak now (high peak now)
Gonna climb this mountain to the moon somehow (moon somehow)
Like Samantha said: … ‘trust-me-you’re-not gonna-fall…’
[T-Pain]
Yeah, never thought I'd be on a mountain
It’s from the Latin word mon-ta-an-us (yeah)
Hima-lay-a-a-an, Look at me, oh (don’t be fifone!)
Never thought I'd see the day
With a big mountain fuckin my way
Believe me when I say, I hugged a Diarmaid
[Chorus]
I'm on a mountain
I'm on a mountain
Everybody look at me cause im climbin up a mountain
I'm on a mountain
I'm on a mountain
Take a good hard look at the motherfuckin mountain
[T-Pain]
Whoahhh
Sme-sme-Smelly, Smelly
Yeah yeah yeahhh
================================================================================
I'm On A Boat (Original) Lyrics
Artist(Band):The Lonely Island
[Intro (T-Pain)]
(Shawty) Aww shit
Get your towels ready it's about to go down (yeah, shawty)
Everybody in the place hit the fuckin deck (yeah, shawty)
But stay on your motherfuckin toes
We runnin this, let's go
[Chorus (T-Pain)]
I'm on a boat (I'm on a boat)
I'm on a boat (I'm on a boat)
Everybody look at me cause I'm sailin on a boat (sailin on a boat)
I'm on a boat (I'm on a boat)
I'm on a boat
Take a good hard look at the motherfuckin boat (boat, yeah)
[The Lonely Island (T-Pain)]
I'm on a boat motherfucker take a look at me
Straight floatin on a boat on the deep blue sea
Bustin five knots, wind whippin at my coat
You can't stop me motherfucker cause I'm on a boat
Take a picture, trick (trick) I'm on a boat, bitch (bitch)
We drinking Santana champ, cause it's so crisp (crisp)
I got my swim trunks, and my flippie-floppies
I'm flippin burgers, you at Kinko's straight flippin copies
I'm ridin on a dolphin, doin flips and shit
This dolphin's splashin, gettin e'rybody all wet
But this ain't Seaworld, this is real as it gets
I'm on a boat motherfucker, don't you ever forget
I'm on a boat and, it's goin fast and
I got a nautical themed pashmina afghan
I'm the king of the world, on a boat like Leo
If you're on the shore, then you're sho' not me-oh
{Get the fuck up, this boat is real}
Fuck land, I'm on a boat, motherfucker (motherfucker)
Fuck trees, I climb buoys, motherfucker (motherfucker)
I'm on the deck with my boys, motherfucker (yeah)
The boat engine make noise, motherfucker
Hey ma, if you could see me now (see me now)
Arms spread wide on the starboard bow (starboard bow)
Gonna fly this boat to the moon somehow (moon somehow)
Like Kevin Garnett, anything is possible
[T-Pain]
Yeah, never thought I'd be on a boat
It's a big blue watery road (yeah)
Poseidon, Look at me, oh (all hands on deck)
Never thought I'd see the day
When a big boat comin my way
Believe me when I say, I fucked a mermaid
[Chorus]
I'm on a boat
I'm on a boat
Everybody look at me cause im sailin on a boat
I'm on a boat
I'm on a boat
Take a good hard look at the motherfuckin boat
[T-Pain]
Whoahhh
Sha-sha-shorty, shorty
Yeah yeah yeahhh
Best read whilst listening to:
The Lonely Island ‘I’m on a Boat’…FIND MP3 @
http://www.sing365.com/music/lyric.nsf/I'm-On-A-Boat-lyrics-The-Lonely-Island/5E9E49DA852420D84825756000135C9F
Dedicated to Samantha, Diarmaid, Mirco and Giuseppe.
Thank you motherfuckers
10/08/2011 – 11/08/2011
I'm On A Mountain
Lyrics by
Artist(Band):The Lonely Island ‘I’m on a Boat’…
Lyrics adapted by: Michelle Napolitano
[Intro (T-Pain)]
(Smelly) Aww shit
Hiking boots ready it's about to go down (yeah, smelly)
Everybody in the place hit the fuckin trail (yeah, smelly)
The chair-lift’s not a fuckin option
We climbin’ this, let's go
[Chorus (T-Pain)]
I'm on a mountain (I'm on a mountain)
I'm on a mountain (I'm on a mountain)
Everybody look at me cause I'm climbin up a mountain (climbin up a mountain)
I'm on a mountain (I'm on a mountain)
I'm on a mountain
Take a good hard look at the motherfuckin mountain (mountain, yeah)
[The Lonely Island (T-Pain)]
We’re on a mountain motherfucker take a look at us
Straight walking up a mountain in the fuckin clouds
Bustin ‘thousand feet, sai? ‘cos the Android’s countin
You can't stop me motherfucker cause I'm on a mountain
Take a picture, trick (trick) I'm on a mountain, bitch (bitch)
We drinkin some German beer, cause it's so crisp (crisp)
I got my hiking sticks, and my hiking stuff
Eatin’ lollies, so my blood sugar doesn’t drop
I'm walkin on a trail, doin skids and shit
This gravel’s rollin and it’s fuckin up my shins
Ain't Sound ‘o Music, this is real as it gets
I'm on a mountain motherfucker, don't you ever forget
I'm on a mountain and, it's fuckin high and
I got a beanie and my sunnies and backpack
I'm the king of the world, on a mountain like a pro
If you're on safe land, then you're sho' not me-oh
{Get the fuck up, this mountain is real}
Fuck level-land, I'm on a mountain, motherfucker (motherfucker)
Fuck paths, I walk rocks, motherfucker (motherfucker)
I'm on the peak with my friends-yo, motherfucker (yeah)
The mountain people say ‘buongiorno’, motherfucker
Hey ma, if you could see me now (see me now)
Arms spread wide on the high peak now (high peak now)
Gonna climb this mountain to the moon somehow (moon somehow)
Like Samantha said: … ‘trust-me-you’re-not gonna-fall…’
[T-Pain]
Yeah, never thought I'd be on a mountain
It’s from the Latin word mon-ta-an-us (yeah)
Hima-lay-a-a-an, Look at me, oh (don’t be fifone!)
Never thought I'd see the day
With a big mountain fuckin my way
Believe me when I say, I hugged a Diarmaid
[Chorus]
I'm on a mountain
I'm on a mountain
Everybody look at me cause im climbin up a mountain
I'm on a mountain
I'm on a mountain
Take a good hard look at the motherfuckin mountain
[T-Pain]
Whoahhh
Sme-sme-Smelly, Smelly
Yeah yeah yeahhh
================================================================================
I'm On A Boat (Original) Lyrics
Artist(Band):The Lonely Island
[Intro (T-Pain)]
(Shawty) Aww shit
Get your towels ready it's about to go down (yeah, shawty)
Everybody in the place hit the fuckin deck (yeah, shawty)
But stay on your motherfuckin toes
We runnin this, let's go
[Chorus (T-Pain)]
I'm on a boat (I'm on a boat)
I'm on a boat (I'm on a boat)
Everybody look at me cause I'm sailin on a boat (sailin on a boat)
I'm on a boat (I'm on a boat)
I'm on a boat
Take a good hard look at the motherfuckin boat (boat, yeah)
[The Lonely Island (T-Pain)]
I'm on a boat motherfucker take a look at me
Straight floatin on a boat on the deep blue sea
Bustin five knots, wind whippin at my coat
You can't stop me motherfucker cause I'm on a boat
Take a picture, trick (trick) I'm on a boat, bitch (bitch)
We drinking Santana champ, cause it's so crisp (crisp)
I got my swim trunks, and my flippie-floppies
I'm flippin burgers, you at Kinko's straight flippin copies
I'm ridin on a dolphin, doin flips and shit
This dolphin's splashin, gettin e'rybody all wet
But this ain't Seaworld, this is real as it gets
I'm on a boat motherfucker, don't you ever forget
I'm on a boat and, it's goin fast and
I got a nautical themed pashmina afghan
I'm the king of the world, on a boat like Leo
If you're on the shore, then you're sho' not me-oh
{Get the fuck up, this boat is real}
Fuck land, I'm on a boat, motherfucker (motherfucker)
Fuck trees, I climb buoys, motherfucker (motherfucker)
I'm on the deck with my boys, motherfucker (yeah)
The boat engine make noise, motherfucker
Hey ma, if you could see me now (see me now)
Arms spread wide on the starboard bow (starboard bow)
Gonna fly this boat to the moon somehow (moon somehow)
Like Kevin Garnett, anything is possible
[T-Pain]
Yeah, never thought I'd be on a boat
It's a big blue watery road (yeah)
Poseidon, Look at me, oh (all hands on deck)
Never thought I'd see the day
When a big boat comin my way
Believe me when I say, I fucked a mermaid
[Chorus]
I'm on a boat
I'm on a boat
Everybody look at me cause im sailin on a boat
I'm on a boat
I'm on a boat
Take a good hard look at the motherfuckin boat
[T-Pain]
Whoahhh
Sha-sha-shorty, shorty
Yeah yeah yeahhh
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Valentino
Valentino is speaking English and Italian and even some Veronese dialect. He is always smiling – and this of course brings me great joy. He has positive influences around him and lots of learning opportunities – such as naming and handling the fresh fruit and vegetables in the family Gastronomia (deli), watching the exchange of money and goods, interacting with his four, nine and fourteen year old cousins, his sixty something grandparents and his eighty something great-grandmother.
He eats freshly harvested and prepared wholesome foods, as lots of the fresh produce comes from local farms and all of the dishes are prepared by his nonni, zia or the women who work at the shop, who he has also grown to be quite fond of.
He has enjoyed getting to know my work colleagues because, not only are they great people but also I’m sure it pleases him to have people other than mum and dad to speak in English with. Although, he has been teaching his Nonna English. She has learnt ‘sit down,’ ‘more,’ ‘milk,’ ‘outside,’ ‘green,’ ‘red,’ ‘car,’ and numbers 1-10 from her 19 month old grandson.
When Giuseppe and I are both working she takes him out walking through the town. Passersby greet him by name and he waves and smiles and says ‘Ciao’.
He is so wonderful, sometimes I can’t believe it. Giuseppe and I gaze at him like he is an angel, look at each other and ask “But, how did we make such a wonderful boy?”
On weekends we play in his room, which is set up with little shelves of puzzles and activities, a box of musical instruments, a bookshelf and a standard, must-have large cardboard box made into a house – what child can resist.
For downtime, we read books; watch Dora, Bob or Little Einsteins. He helps us clean the apartment by putting dirty clothes in the laundry basket or washing machine, carrying his nappy bags to the front door and putting rubbish in the bin. He is also getting better at packing up his toys independently.
Now, working full-time and being physically away from him for 12 hours every week day, my time with him is more precious than ever. I love him so much and feel a sense of pride I have not known before – that we are doing such a great job raising him. I couldn’t do it without the Napolitano’s and the Rossignoli’s support.
If only our families could truly merge – see each other regularly, have dinners and bbqs and gatherings…
I told Giuseppe 3 years ago to invent a teleporter. He hasn’t even drawn up the blue prints for it.
It’s hard having your heart in two places. But my heart of hearts is with my love and my son.
He eats freshly harvested and prepared wholesome foods, as lots of the fresh produce comes from local farms and all of the dishes are prepared by his nonni, zia or the women who work at the shop, who he has also grown to be quite fond of.
He has enjoyed getting to know my work colleagues because, not only are they great people but also I’m sure it pleases him to have people other than mum and dad to speak in English with. Although, he has been teaching his Nonna English. She has learnt ‘sit down,’ ‘more,’ ‘milk,’ ‘outside,’ ‘green,’ ‘red,’ ‘car,’ and numbers 1-10 from her 19 month old grandson.
When Giuseppe and I are both working she takes him out walking through the town. Passersby greet him by name and he waves and smiles and says ‘Ciao’.
He is so wonderful, sometimes I can’t believe it. Giuseppe and I gaze at him like he is an angel, look at each other and ask “But, how did we make such a wonderful boy?”
On weekends we play in his room, which is set up with little shelves of puzzles and activities, a box of musical instruments, a bookshelf and a standard, must-have large cardboard box made into a house – what child can resist.
For downtime, we read books; watch Dora, Bob or Little Einsteins. He helps us clean the apartment by putting dirty clothes in the laundry basket or washing machine, carrying his nappy bags to the front door and putting rubbish in the bin. He is also getting better at packing up his toys independently.
Now, working full-time and being physically away from him for 12 hours every week day, my time with him is more precious than ever. I love him so much and feel a sense of pride I have not known before – that we are doing such a great job raising him. I couldn’t do it without the Napolitano’s and the Rossignoli’s support.
If only our families could truly merge – see each other regularly, have dinners and bbqs and gatherings…
I told Giuseppe 3 years ago to invent a teleporter. He hasn’t even drawn up the blue prints for it.
It’s hard having your heart in two places. But my heart of hearts is with my love and my son.
Don't expect me to write about riding on a Vespa
Soon it will be my birthday. My 31st Birthday. I am now well and truly into my ‘30’s.
Hi. It’s mid-January. If I were in Australia in this moment, I would be experiencing the hot summer, (or lack thereof… possibly it is overcast and raining right now…) and it would be the summer holidays. As a teacher off school I would be spending time with other teachers or students who share the same holidays, as everyone would have returned to work shortly after New Year’s Day unless they had scheduled time off. We would be heading to the beach or enjoying the cool summer breeze out at a beer garden, or even kicking back in the backyard – the garden… here in Italy if you have a house with a large garden, you are most probably rich and your house and property are referred to as a ‘villa’.
I live in an apartment on the first floor. I have a balcony. It’s winter now. The snow has ceased, there wasn’t much of it this year, it has stayed up in the mountains and only fell near and around home on a few days. Now there is a lot of ‘nebbia’ (fog) – a lot. Some ice and still settling at 0 degrees Celsius or a little more on most days.
I’m looking forward to spring. I miss the bike rides through Valle, the nature park near our house. The track has twists and turns and forks into little passageways beneath green leafy canopies. I want to hang plant pots all along our balcony railings and have green leafy creeping plants cascade down the bars and wrap around them. Maybe some flowers; but I do prefer lots of green.
This post, if I dare discuss it mid-creation, is about living in Italy – truly. I am feeling less and less like a traveler, an outsider or a migrant – a ‘stranieri’. Apart from not having any proper and competent skill with the language – I feel like I have achieved a nice level of comfort here. I have created another comfort zone for myself. And it is here in Bovolone, province of Verona, and the city of Verona itself, especially now that I work there every week day. I’ve made friends through work, who have all been a great support and I feel, after the post- newborn phase of a seemingly disappearing social life due to both the huge and wonderful responsibilities of being a new parent and also people assuming that you can’t socialize at all if you have a baby; now I feel I that have regained and rebuilt ‘Michelle’ and enjoy socializing with like-minded and very likeable people. I enjoy my job and don’t recall ever settling in quite so well into new employment as I have at my present post. It’s been four months now, but I do believe I was feeling near to 100% comfortable within my first month. The people I work with make all the difference.
Ho imparato piu’ Italiano, e ho capito meglio. Gramatica, e parlare – non ‘e molto bene… ahah anch’e scrivere. Spero, imparare meglio. ‘E difficile’, perhce’ ho lavora a scoula internatzionale, e parla Inglese tutto giorno. Ma imparato un po’ Italiano perche’ parla Italino ogni giorno con la altra maestra di mia classe, (lei e una maestra di Italiano per miei studenti) e anche’ ho provato parlare con i miei studenti in Italiano qualche volte, perche’ qualche di loro non capiscono Inglese bene. Gli altri studenti conoscono Inglese e Italiano bene, auitanno me con mia grammatica – insegnanno me!
So, I’m not doing too badly. I know what I just wrote is not fantastic, but it’s a huge improvement from when I first arrived in Italy.
I think that one of the hardest obstacles when relocating is accepting the culture. This is an obstacle that, as an Italian (born and raised in Australia in an Italian family, with the language, food and culture) I did not expect to be facing any culture shocks.
Oh how I was mistaken.
Granted, we all love to watch movies and read books about Italy – to be swept away by the romance, the architecture, the history, the energy, the loud, verbose, melodic Italians preparing spaghetti as a family with fifty cousins running around and the grandmothers and mothers chopping tomatoes and basil, drinking red wine, the men drinking grappa and all of the family eating and laughing and dancing and singing together. Shall we take it even further? Driving vespas, FIAT 500s and Ferraris, drinking espressos and smoking long white cigarettes, debating passionately or quietly playing cards.
There is a scene in an Australian movie about an Italian family living in Sydney, where they have the annual ‘tomato day’ – when the family gets together and makes a year supply of tomato based pasta sauce, bottle it and distribute it to each house in the extended family. It rings true. My family always had ‘tomato day’. Though we didn’t play Italian 45” records and dance with joy like the scene in this movie… I don’t remember being present at a tomato day but I’m sure it involved my grandfather being annoyed for one reason or another and criticizing another family member’s technique of something or other. But I’m straying from the point.
Yes, Italy has been shown through rose-coloured, romantic, charming specs through film and literature. It is truly mesmerizing… when you’re on vacation here. Living, as it is anywhere, is just that… living. And, I think it’s safe to say that a lot of the stereotypes… for example, the cute old men sitting on rickety old chairs on the sidewalk in front of the bakery playing cards and arguing and the people singing old Italian folk songs at the bar are indeed in existence but they exist either in the past or in the south of Italy.
I’m certainly not living in any Sofia Loren movie. It is sort of quiet here. I went to a bar with work friends and we were ‘shh-d’. In a bar. On a Friday night. The quiet Veronese patrons looked up from their library-quiet tables and glared at us for being a tad loud and the bartender apparently told us to be quiet. I was too tipsy and therefore unaware but I blinked in disbelief when I was informed later.
I don’t mean to disappoint you and it’s opinion really, but that’s just my take on the general atmosphere here. There are still stereotypes and expectations in existence. Coffee. You can get a good coffee anywhere – even the train station has a Lavazza machine. Pizza. Oh my, what splendid, mouth-watering pizza. Thin, fluffy lighter-than-air bases so you can eat a whole pizza and not feel like you would sink to the bottom of the ocean. Simple, no fuss toppings. FRESH ham, not that horrid processed little stick-like strings of what is referred to as ‘ham’ in some places. Fresh ingredients in most places, especially when you eat at restaurants and more so, Trattoria’s outside of Verona and in the towns, as each town is surrounded by farmland and therefore, more than likely the ingredients of whatever you are eating was still growing or living no more than a day before.
The general standard of food in Italy is very high, as the expectations of Italy and it’s relationship with food reigns on with force. Even in the schools, the children eat a three course meal (the third course being fruit and once a week, a piece of cake,) beginning with a pasta dish followed by a nice balance of meat and vegetables. There is always bread on the table and natural water. The children can sometimes have seconds and other times thirds and eating well is always encouraged. I don’t see any weight problems – the children look fit and healthy. Yes they sit down and eat for forty minutes straight, but most of them play a sport and in addition to that… eating a balanced meal encourages less snacking and considerably less junk food. The local shops sell bread rolls with salami, at worst. There might be the odd ‘patatine fritte’ (hot chips) stand, kind of akin to the kebab vans parked around Melbourne. The difference is, instead of being able to buy a giant kebab that has greater mass than your stomach itself, the patatine are small, thin and served in a little container no wider or longer than your hand and no higher than your thumb. Small servings… and most of the food available is nutritious and wholesome enough to be satisfying in small amounts. Chalk it up to a history of excellent and quality cuisine.
School here is blackboards, chalk and dictatorial style teaching, lines of desks and writing, copying and writing some more. I learnt early on that I can’t change the way it is, nor dare I try to completely change the atmosphere of my own classroom. It’s not so much a matter of resigning to it – but merely because if I have the children grow accustomed to a 21st century learning space, then they will suffer greatly when faced with new classrooms in elementary, depending on the teaching style and especially when they reach high school. So, I’ve achieved a nice comfortable balance of both worlds. I have three boxes of hands-on activities (some brought and some made) consisting of one English box, one maths box and one games box. When each lesson is finished and the required amount of writing is completed in their books, then they are free to choose from a subject appropriate box.
The wonderful thing is, they willingly take out a packet of alphabet letters or counters and spell words or count. I see them work independently, in pairs or as a group and form new strategies and games without any input from me. They take on new learning opportunities such as these even in their playtime, when it is too wet or cold to play outdoors.
They thoroughly enjoy our classroom and I feel that together we have achieved a ‘learning is fun’ atmosphere. Every week day I wake at 6am, shower, dress, scull a large caffe latte, take five minutes to put on my coat, scarf, hat and gloves and one minute to walk to Bovolone train station to catch the train that heads for Verona. Two stops and I arrive at Verona Porta Nuova train station and then it’s a twenty minute walk to school. I like walking through the station every morning, past platforms that have trains bound for Bologna, Venezia and Milano, that I can be in and around cities that I used to only experience through photos and movies.
I walk amongst a crowd of teenagers along a street with much too narrow paths and a narrow space between the line of trees and brick wall that turns an almost two-way path into barely a one-way on a rainy day as you run the risk of locking umbrellas like stag antlers. I have moments of feeling like a part of the crowd, as if, I dare say and please don’t cringe too much… sometimes I feel as if I’ve always been here. Me in my scarf, beanie and winter coat, listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers ‘One Hot Minute’ an album from my sixteenth year… I am whisked away to my teenage years and then it occurs to me: ‘I AM youthful’.
Seriously. I feel young and I don’t think that’s going to change. I have absolutely no fear of turning 31 or 32 or 52. It’s all good. I feel happy, at peace and there is nowhere else I’d rather be right now. Of course, I miss my family and friends in Melbourne very, very much. But missing won’t keep in me Melbourne right now. Melbourne is comfortable, easy and secure. I know the streets and love it all. Here, yes I have found some comfort… but it’s not easy. There are still moments of apprehension, doubt and uncertainty. For sure, I had all these feelings at times in Melbourne, it’s not Pleasantville or some kind of Utopian paradise. It’s still as any mode of life. But living in Italy is something I’ve always wanted to do and I’m doing it. Teaching in another country is something I’ve always wanted to do and despite all the odd contrasts and eccentricities, it has been a great experience adapting and getting to know a completely different system.
I could sit here and list all of the negatives but I’m not going to. It will just make me feel tired.
Instead, I’m going to sit and ponder now, without boring you by putting it in print, of all the things that I have learnt that I will take back to Melbourne, whenever that may be…
Vediamo – we’ll see.
It’s not downhill after 30 as I guess is the age old notion that I feel my generation is breaking out of and 30 is the new 20, is it not? It’s a road that keeps going and the way it goes all depends on how you drive and which turns you make.
And choose to remain calm most of the time, if not all.
Ciao for now!
Michelle
Hi. It’s mid-January. If I were in Australia in this moment, I would be experiencing the hot summer, (or lack thereof… possibly it is overcast and raining right now…) and it would be the summer holidays. As a teacher off school I would be spending time with other teachers or students who share the same holidays, as everyone would have returned to work shortly after New Year’s Day unless they had scheduled time off. We would be heading to the beach or enjoying the cool summer breeze out at a beer garden, or even kicking back in the backyard – the garden… here in Italy if you have a house with a large garden, you are most probably rich and your house and property are referred to as a ‘villa’.
I live in an apartment on the first floor. I have a balcony. It’s winter now. The snow has ceased, there wasn’t much of it this year, it has stayed up in the mountains and only fell near and around home on a few days. Now there is a lot of ‘nebbia’ (fog) – a lot. Some ice and still settling at 0 degrees Celsius or a little more on most days.
I’m looking forward to spring. I miss the bike rides through Valle, the nature park near our house. The track has twists and turns and forks into little passageways beneath green leafy canopies. I want to hang plant pots all along our balcony railings and have green leafy creeping plants cascade down the bars and wrap around them. Maybe some flowers; but I do prefer lots of green.
This post, if I dare discuss it mid-creation, is about living in Italy – truly. I am feeling less and less like a traveler, an outsider or a migrant – a ‘stranieri’. Apart from not having any proper and competent skill with the language – I feel like I have achieved a nice level of comfort here. I have created another comfort zone for myself. And it is here in Bovolone, province of Verona, and the city of Verona itself, especially now that I work there every week day. I’ve made friends through work, who have all been a great support and I feel, after the post- newborn phase of a seemingly disappearing social life due to both the huge and wonderful responsibilities of being a new parent and also people assuming that you can’t socialize at all if you have a baby; now I feel I that have regained and rebuilt ‘Michelle’ and enjoy socializing with like-minded and very likeable people. I enjoy my job and don’t recall ever settling in quite so well into new employment as I have at my present post. It’s been four months now, but I do believe I was feeling near to 100% comfortable within my first month. The people I work with make all the difference.
Ho imparato piu’ Italiano, e ho capito meglio. Gramatica, e parlare – non ‘e molto bene… ahah anch’e scrivere. Spero, imparare meglio. ‘E difficile’, perhce’ ho lavora a scoula internatzionale, e parla Inglese tutto giorno. Ma imparato un po’ Italiano perche’ parla Italino ogni giorno con la altra maestra di mia classe, (lei e una maestra di Italiano per miei studenti) e anche’ ho provato parlare con i miei studenti in Italiano qualche volte, perche’ qualche di loro non capiscono Inglese bene. Gli altri studenti conoscono Inglese e Italiano bene, auitanno me con mia grammatica – insegnanno me!
So, I’m not doing too badly. I know what I just wrote is not fantastic, but it’s a huge improvement from when I first arrived in Italy.
I think that one of the hardest obstacles when relocating is accepting the culture. This is an obstacle that, as an Italian (born and raised in Australia in an Italian family, with the language, food and culture) I did not expect to be facing any culture shocks.
Oh how I was mistaken.
Granted, we all love to watch movies and read books about Italy – to be swept away by the romance, the architecture, the history, the energy, the loud, verbose, melodic Italians preparing spaghetti as a family with fifty cousins running around and the grandmothers and mothers chopping tomatoes and basil, drinking red wine, the men drinking grappa and all of the family eating and laughing and dancing and singing together. Shall we take it even further? Driving vespas, FIAT 500s and Ferraris, drinking espressos and smoking long white cigarettes, debating passionately or quietly playing cards.
There is a scene in an Australian movie about an Italian family living in Sydney, where they have the annual ‘tomato day’ – when the family gets together and makes a year supply of tomato based pasta sauce, bottle it and distribute it to each house in the extended family. It rings true. My family always had ‘tomato day’. Though we didn’t play Italian 45” records and dance with joy like the scene in this movie… I don’t remember being present at a tomato day but I’m sure it involved my grandfather being annoyed for one reason or another and criticizing another family member’s technique of something or other. But I’m straying from the point.
Yes, Italy has been shown through rose-coloured, romantic, charming specs through film and literature. It is truly mesmerizing… when you’re on vacation here. Living, as it is anywhere, is just that… living. And, I think it’s safe to say that a lot of the stereotypes… for example, the cute old men sitting on rickety old chairs on the sidewalk in front of the bakery playing cards and arguing and the people singing old Italian folk songs at the bar are indeed in existence but they exist either in the past or in the south of Italy.
I’m certainly not living in any Sofia Loren movie. It is sort of quiet here. I went to a bar with work friends and we were ‘shh-d’. In a bar. On a Friday night. The quiet Veronese patrons looked up from their library-quiet tables and glared at us for being a tad loud and the bartender apparently told us to be quiet. I was too tipsy and therefore unaware but I blinked in disbelief when I was informed later.
I don’t mean to disappoint you and it’s opinion really, but that’s just my take on the general atmosphere here. There are still stereotypes and expectations in existence. Coffee. You can get a good coffee anywhere – even the train station has a Lavazza machine. Pizza. Oh my, what splendid, mouth-watering pizza. Thin, fluffy lighter-than-air bases so you can eat a whole pizza and not feel like you would sink to the bottom of the ocean. Simple, no fuss toppings. FRESH ham, not that horrid processed little stick-like strings of what is referred to as ‘ham’ in some places. Fresh ingredients in most places, especially when you eat at restaurants and more so, Trattoria’s outside of Verona and in the towns, as each town is surrounded by farmland and therefore, more than likely the ingredients of whatever you are eating was still growing or living no more than a day before.
The general standard of food in Italy is very high, as the expectations of Italy and it’s relationship with food reigns on with force. Even in the schools, the children eat a three course meal (the third course being fruit and once a week, a piece of cake,) beginning with a pasta dish followed by a nice balance of meat and vegetables. There is always bread on the table and natural water. The children can sometimes have seconds and other times thirds and eating well is always encouraged. I don’t see any weight problems – the children look fit and healthy. Yes they sit down and eat for forty minutes straight, but most of them play a sport and in addition to that… eating a balanced meal encourages less snacking and considerably less junk food. The local shops sell bread rolls with salami, at worst. There might be the odd ‘patatine fritte’ (hot chips) stand, kind of akin to the kebab vans parked around Melbourne. The difference is, instead of being able to buy a giant kebab that has greater mass than your stomach itself, the patatine are small, thin and served in a little container no wider or longer than your hand and no higher than your thumb. Small servings… and most of the food available is nutritious and wholesome enough to be satisfying in small amounts. Chalk it up to a history of excellent and quality cuisine.
School here is blackboards, chalk and dictatorial style teaching, lines of desks and writing, copying and writing some more. I learnt early on that I can’t change the way it is, nor dare I try to completely change the atmosphere of my own classroom. It’s not so much a matter of resigning to it – but merely because if I have the children grow accustomed to a 21st century learning space, then they will suffer greatly when faced with new classrooms in elementary, depending on the teaching style and especially when they reach high school. So, I’ve achieved a nice comfortable balance of both worlds. I have three boxes of hands-on activities (some brought and some made) consisting of one English box, one maths box and one games box. When each lesson is finished and the required amount of writing is completed in their books, then they are free to choose from a subject appropriate box.
The wonderful thing is, they willingly take out a packet of alphabet letters or counters and spell words or count. I see them work independently, in pairs or as a group and form new strategies and games without any input from me. They take on new learning opportunities such as these even in their playtime, when it is too wet or cold to play outdoors.
They thoroughly enjoy our classroom and I feel that together we have achieved a ‘learning is fun’ atmosphere. Every week day I wake at 6am, shower, dress, scull a large caffe latte, take five minutes to put on my coat, scarf, hat and gloves and one minute to walk to Bovolone train station to catch the train that heads for Verona. Two stops and I arrive at Verona Porta Nuova train station and then it’s a twenty minute walk to school. I like walking through the station every morning, past platforms that have trains bound for Bologna, Venezia and Milano, that I can be in and around cities that I used to only experience through photos and movies.
I walk amongst a crowd of teenagers along a street with much too narrow paths and a narrow space between the line of trees and brick wall that turns an almost two-way path into barely a one-way on a rainy day as you run the risk of locking umbrellas like stag antlers. I have moments of feeling like a part of the crowd, as if, I dare say and please don’t cringe too much… sometimes I feel as if I’ve always been here. Me in my scarf, beanie and winter coat, listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers ‘One Hot Minute’ an album from my sixteenth year… I am whisked away to my teenage years and then it occurs to me: ‘I AM youthful’.
Seriously. I feel young and I don’t think that’s going to change. I have absolutely no fear of turning 31 or 32 or 52. It’s all good. I feel happy, at peace and there is nowhere else I’d rather be right now. Of course, I miss my family and friends in Melbourne very, very much. But missing won’t keep in me Melbourne right now. Melbourne is comfortable, easy and secure. I know the streets and love it all. Here, yes I have found some comfort… but it’s not easy. There are still moments of apprehension, doubt and uncertainty. For sure, I had all these feelings at times in Melbourne, it’s not Pleasantville or some kind of Utopian paradise. It’s still as any mode of life. But living in Italy is something I’ve always wanted to do and I’m doing it. Teaching in another country is something I’ve always wanted to do and despite all the odd contrasts and eccentricities, it has been a great experience adapting and getting to know a completely different system.
I could sit here and list all of the negatives but I’m not going to. It will just make me feel tired.
Instead, I’m going to sit and ponder now, without boring you by putting it in print, of all the things that I have learnt that I will take back to Melbourne, whenever that may be…
Vediamo – we’ll see.
It’s not downhill after 30 as I guess is the age old notion that I feel my generation is breaking out of and 30 is the new 20, is it not? It’s a road that keeps going and the way it goes all depends on how you drive and which turns you make.
And choose to remain calm most of the time, if not all.
Ciao for now!
Michelle
Thursday, December 2, 2010
He would make people laugh through tears with his funny stories and jokes and make people fear for their lives with his angry glare.
Well here I am several months after my last relevant post, relevant to the name of this blog that is... but right now I'm not here to make observations and reflections about living in Italy. Though there is much to say about that. Like in my most recent poem, if any of you happened to read on Facebook: 'It's all good'. And it is.
But right now I am here to think and reflect about my father. Which I guess my last post reflected, in my little memory lane trip via the Augie March song 'Asleep in Perfection' in a sort of build up to where we are now with this post.
Dead people sort of get that invisible title. With all of our faults, worst mistakes, quirks and eccentricities, when we die, those who loved us or even liked us, remember us as some perfect soul. Even those who didn't particularly like us much in life, remember us for all of our positive aspects, even if those who disliked us had the smallest ounce of general respect and good manners.
But I'm rambling. I'm not up at almost midnight on a school night to write a polished piece or even something remotely inventive. I'm not even going to do a spellcheck.
I just need to empty my head and tell the internet blogging world thankyou for providing an avenue to vent and bare all. Because that's all I can remember wanting to do ten years ago. Well, it's almost the 3rd of December so it was 9 years, 11 months and 19 days ago, I think. I was never really good at math but please don't tell my student's parents that.
I felt the need to tell any person who asked even the vaguest question the story of how my father slipped away. I didn't want to spare any gruesome, sorrowful or heartbreaking detail. I would imagine people's reactions. But I rarely did tell the story. A few details seemed to overwhelm people with deep hurt, sadness and a level of uncomfortable and awkward that I would rather not inflict. So, most of the time I would reply with a few vague comments, a brave face and a positive attitude.
I was standing in our backyard, between the veranda step and the lawn, eyes fixed on my mother as she stood at the driveway facing our labrador Charlie. He was gazing at her, clearly confused and somewhat saddened as she sobbed to him that Frank wasn't coming back. He waited at the gate every day for weeks, ears pricking up and a hopeful expression every time a car drove up, only to sink back to the ground moments later with his head on his paws.
I opened the front to door to find my Uncle Peter, his Uncle Peter, only four years his senior and more like a brother, the first words he said to me was "He loved you so much" followed by a big hug and the first tears I'd ever seen him shed.
I thought of my cousin Vince back at the hospital, I could hear him but I was staring at the flowers my Aunty Carmen brought as Vince was slowly saying "Fuck. Fuck. Not him too. Fuck."
I remember the women who came to our house that I had never met before in my life, who sat in our loungeroom for an hour talking about death, one about her son who died in his twenties, his picture hung around her neck in a wallet size open locket.
I remember sitting on the footpath infront of our house in my long black skirts and, however ironically black, hippy shirts, smoking Cartier and my friends sitting beside me as I stared at my toenails and suggested to them that I should paint them purple, before my mum and sisters called me inside to ask me to write a poem to go in the funeral card.
I remember my cousin Lucy telling me about a song that made her and her sister sad everytime they heard it, before realising that it was because it was playing in the limousine between the church and the cemetary. The song was 'I hope you dance' by Leanne Womack and Lucy later bought me the CD single. The songwriter wrote it for her children. I really like the line "I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean... and when you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance."
I remember my Aunty Shirley writing in the newspaper "He's ain't heavy, he's my brother" and Nonno writing that he lost the jewel in his crown. I remember seeing my Aunty Grace crying a lot for the first time in the funeral parlour, at the viewing.
I remember my big sisters tucking my hair behind my ears and giving me glasses of water.
I remember my friend Priscilla taking me for a drive and telling me to scream as loud as I possibly could. I told her I couldn't. I remember Jon and Anna and Tania there, like permanent fixtures on that footpath infront of our house.
I remember opening my Dad's wardrobe and pushing my face against his jackets and shirts before quickly closing the doors against the back of my head to keep as much of his smell trapped inside as I could, as I breathed it in.
I remember the hairs standing up on my arm whenever I sat in the loungeroom and wishing, willing him to appear even though the thought scares the shit out of me.
I remember my older cousin Vince looking down as the coffin was lowered into the ground as he said "Bye Frank".
I remember my Dad.
But not as much as I would like. I feel like the memories are fading and it scares me. It has been almost ten years. It will be ten years on the 12th of December, 5.30am-ish to be almost exact.
I can't remember his smell. I can hear his voice if I think really hard, though it echoes and rises and falls and I just can't seem to grasp it. It doesn't seem fair to have to go to so much effort. I can picture his face. But I can't recall every detail, the exact shape of his nose, his chin, every line, every crease, where exactly the ginger and the black and the white of his beard started and stopped and were his eyes really brown with a dark blue outline or did I just imagine it and were his teeth really thirty-a-day smoker yellow or were they not that bad and was his voice nasally at times, especially when he laughed and it seems almost not likely that he still had great biceps for a 50 something who didn't work out although I suppose he lifted car transmissions every day for most of his life, and did his fingernails always have grease under them from working on cars, because he was a bit of a neat freak or did I make that up. He wore blue a lot. And brown.
He used to laugh at his own jokes. He had a whole repetoire of bad jokes as most fathers do. Every New Years Eve, all of the family would say to him, "New year, time to get some new jokes". He fixed everyone's car. He invented things. He was a great storyteller, complete with accurate voice immitations to expression and gestures so he would have everyone in the room locked in. He really liked Christmas and he used to dress up as Santa for us and the cousins. He hated public crowds and waiting in lines. When he was annoyed, he would breath through his nose loudly like a horse. He loved movies and would watch his favourites on repeat. He most admired Steve McQueen, Clint Eastwood, Bogart and Brando to name a few. He loved music, mostly 50s and 60s Rock and Roll and Country. He cooked a mean fritata with salami. If he made a trip to the deli, it meant he would come home with a big bag of fresh cured meats, cheese, olives and bread to share for lunch. If he went to buy something like an appliance or a tool, it had to be the best brand. He never bought himself clothes and we had to threaten him several times before he threw out his old haggered brown cardigan. He was a collector of philosophies and affirmations of peace within yourself, courage and reality as he saw it. He called himself a pessimist, ("A pessimist is a well informed optimist," he would say when I called him negative,) but I think he was just a realist. He was optimistic without being foolish. He was cautious and thought things through. He was both patient and impatient. He was both placid and hot-tempered. He was a jokester, a prankster, an actor and an artist. He would make people laugh through tears with his funny stories and jokes and make people fear for their lives with his angry glare.
He called me 'Mickey' and often said it in a sobbing Sylvester Stallone voice to mimick the scene in Rocky 3. He was Frank, frank... true to his name. He always told it like it is, he never lied and he never stole. When he was young he went to school every day, he did his homework, when he was older he went to work every day and got the job done. He always kept his word. He taught us manners, respect and self-worth.
Perfection? No, don't be ridiculous. He was real and he is real because he will always be my father. I get it, we only hold on to the positives because the positives breath air into us.
Well.
I suppose now after all of that, I think I can almost recall his smell. Cigarettes, and I mean the hardcore 16mg cigarettes, old clothes, engine oil and a vague scent of Old Spice and fragrant soap. I think that's as close as I'm going to get.
Love you Dad. Rest in peace. When I think about it, I really do hope there is a heaven and then I hope that you're up there with Uncle Peter, laughing your nasally laughs together and making Nonna smile. Oh and maybe kicking back with Brando on occasion, too. Mimick a few voices and quote your favourites.
Ciao for now.
But right now I am here to think and reflect about my father. Which I guess my last post reflected, in my little memory lane trip via the Augie March song 'Asleep in Perfection' in a sort of build up to where we are now with this post.
Dead people sort of get that invisible title. With all of our faults, worst mistakes, quirks and eccentricities, when we die, those who loved us or even liked us, remember us as some perfect soul. Even those who didn't particularly like us much in life, remember us for all of our positive aspects, even if those who disliked us had the smallest ounce of general respect and good manners.
But I'm rambling. I'm not up at almost midnight on a school night to write a polished piece or even something remotely inventive. I'm not even going to do a spellcheck.
I just need to empty my head and tell the internet blogging world thankyou for providing an avenue to vent and bare all. Because that's all I can remember wanting to do ten years ago. Well, it's almost the 3rd of December so it was 9 years, 11 months and 19 days ago, I think. I was never really good at math but please don't tell my student's parents that.
I felt the need to tell any person who asked even the vaguest question the story of how my father slipped away. I didn't want to spare any gruesome, sorrowful or heartbreaking detail. I would imagine people's reactions. But I rarely did tell the story. A few details seemed to overwhelm people with deep hurt, sadness and a level of uncomfortable and awkward that I would rather not inflict. So, most of the time I would reply with a few vague comments, a brave face and a positive attitude.
I was standing in our backyard, between the veranda step and the lawn, eyes fixed on my mother as she stood at the driveway facing our labrador Charlie. He was gazing at her, clearly confused and somewhat saddened as she sobbed to him that Frank wasn't coming back. He waited at the gate every day for weeks, ears pricking up and a hopeful expression every time a car drove up, only to sink back to the ground moments later with his head on his paws.
I opened the front to door to find my Uncle Peter, his Uncle Peter, only four years his senior and more like a brother, the first words he said to me was "He loved you so much" followed by a big hug and the first tears I'd ever seen him shed.
I thought of my cousin Vince back at the hospital, I could hear him but I was staring at the flowers my Aunty Carmen brought as Vince was slowly saying "Fuck. Fuck. Not him too. Fuck."
I remember the women who came to our house that I had never met before in my life, who sat in our loungeroom for an hour talking about death, one about her son who died in his twenties, his picture hung around her neck in a wallet size open locket.
I remember sitting on the footpath infront of our house in my long black skirts and, however ironically black, hippy shirts, smoking Cartier and my friends sitting beside me as I stared at my toenails and suggested to them that I should paint them purple, before my mum and sisters called me inside to ask me to write a poem to go in the funeral card.
I remember my cousin Lucy telling me about a song that made her and her sister sad everytime they heard it, before realising that it was because it was playing in the limousine between the church and the cemetary. The song was 'I hope you dance' by Leanne Womack and Lucy later bought me the CD single. The songwriter wrote it for her children. I really like the line "I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean... and when you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance."
I remember my Aunty Shirley writing in the newspaper "He's ain't heavy, he's my brother" and Nonno writing that he lost the jewel in his crown. I remember seeing my Aunty Grace crying a lot for the first time in the funeral parlour, at the viewing.
I remember my big sisters tucking my hair behind my ears and giving me glasses of water.
I remember my friend Priscilla taking me for a drive and telling me to scream as loud as I possibly could. I told her I couldn't. I remember Jon and Anna and Tania there, like permanent fixtures on that footpath infront of our house.
I remember opening my Dad's wardrobe and pushing my face against his jackets and shirts before quickly closing the doors against the back of my head to keep as much of his smell trapped inside as I could, as I breathed it in.
I remember the hairs standing up on my arm whenever I sat in the loungeroom and wishing, willing him to appear even though the thought scares the shit out of me.
I remember my older cousin Vince looking down as the coffin was lowered into the ground as he said "Bye Frank".
I remember my Dad.
But not as much as I would like. I feel like the memories are fading and it scares me. It has been almost ten years. It will be ten years on the 12th of December, 5.30am-ish to be almost exact.
I can't remember his smell. I can hear his voice if I think really hard, though it echoes and rises and falls and I just can't seem to grasp it. It doesn't seem fair to have to go to so much effort. I can picture his face. But I can't recall every detail, the exact shape of his nose, his chin, every line, every crease, where exactly the ginger and the black and the white of his beard started and stopped and were his eyes really brown with a dark blue outline or did I just imagine it and were his teeth really thirty-a-day smoker yellow or were they not that bad and was his voice nasally at times, especially when he laughed and it seems almost not likely that he still had great biceps for a 50 something who didn't work out although I suppose he lifted car transmissions every day for most of his life, and did his fingernails always have grease under them from working on cars, because he was a bit of a neat freak or did I make that up. He wore blue a lot. And brown.
He used to laugh at his own jokes. He had a whole repetoire of bad jokes as most fathers do. Every New Years Eve, all of the family would say to him, "New year, time to get some new jokes". He fixed everyone's car. He invented things. He was a great storyteller, complete with accurate voice immitations to expression and gestures so he would have everyone in the room locked in. He really liked Christmas and he used to dress up as Santa for us and the cousins. He hated public crowds and waiting in lines. When he was annoyed, he would breath through his nose loudly like a horse. He loved movies and would watch his favourites on repeat. He most admired Steve McQueen, Clint Eastwood, Bogart and Brando to name a few. He loved music, mostly 50s and 60s Rock and Roll and Country. He cooked a mean fritata with salami. If he made a trip to the deli, it meant he would come home with a big bag of fresh cured meats, cheese, olives and bread to share for lunch. If he went to buy something like an appliance or a tool, it had to be the best brand. He never bought himself clothes and we had to threaten him several times before he threw out his old haggered brown cardigan. He was a collector of philosophies and affirmations of peace within yourself, courage and reality as he saw it. He called himself a pessimist, ("A pessimist is a well informed optimist," he would say when I called him negative,) but I think he was just a realist. He was optimistic without being foolish. He was cautious and thought things through. He was both patient and impatient. He was both placid and hot-tempered. He was a jokester, a prankster, an actor and an artist. He would make people laugh through tears with his funny stories and jokes and make people fear for their lives with his angry glare.
He called me 'Mickey' and often said it in a sobbing Sylvester Stallone voice to mimick the scene in Rocky 3. He was Frank, frank... true to his name. He always told it like it is, he never lied and he never stole. When he was young he went to school every day, he did his homework, when he was older he went to work every day and got the job done. He always kept his word. He taught us manners, respect and self-worth.
Perfection? No, don't be ridiculous. He was real and he is real because he will always be my father. I get it, we only hold on to the positives because the positives breath air into us.
Well.
I suppose now after all of that, I think I can almost recall his smell. Cigarettes, and I mean the hardcore 16mg cigarettes, old clothes, engine oil and a vague scent of Old Spice and fragrant soap. I think that's as close as I'm going to get.
Love you Dad. Rest in peace. When I think about it, I really do hope there is a heaven and then I hope that you're up there with Uncle Peter, laughing your nasally laughs together and making Nonna smile. Oh and maybe kicking back with Brando on occasion, too. Mimick a few voices and quote your favourites.
Ciao for now.
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