Saturday, March 11, 2017
March 11, 2017
Returned from a walk to take in the full moon over Venice. It is not a crowded city. Except for droves of American youth, the streets are nearly deserted on a Saturday night. The moon rides high and small and oddly irrelevant to the complicated scene below. Needed to stretch my legs after the epic, unconscious nap that came after the epic exploration and memorable day drunk of the hours before. Worked my way eastward to San Marco and the great Piazza and the seat of empire that was. There was a show of Bosch in the Doge’s palace. After being sold the wrong ticket and taking the Golden Stair twice, I saw the amazing paintings. Bosch and I are kindred across the years. I don’t know exactly what to do with that observation, except for maybe go home and paint. The church itself aims for an effect other than spacious grandeur. It is close, secretive, Byzantine, threadbare, gleaming dully gold and marble, as though it had some greater presence which it was withholding. A woman was preaching into a microphone. The irritation of her querulous old voice is difficult to describe. Nothing grates like sanctimoniousness. So much more for sanctimoniousness in a foreign language. Maybe that tainted my perspective. Sat in the light of the piazza and wrote a poem about the light of the piazza. Made my way east along the wide esplanade against the lagoon, stopping every few blocks for vino bianco della casa, until I was just this side of staggering drunk. I haven’t had a day drunk since a few New York trips ago, and I enjoyed it. Again the sky was celestial blue, without a single wisp of cloud. I stopped when the city became a park, and made my way back, staggering, café sitting, drinking as before. My arthritic knees had been tormenting me– there are stairs to be climbed over every canal– but in the midst of my inebriation I noted that they had stopped hurting, that they felt fine. They still do. Maybe I have found a cure. We will need such remedies when Ryan destroys our health care.
The cormorants clearly believe there is life in the lagoon.
In my night walk I followed a sound which I thought was a child crying. It was a laughing gull, flying from one post to another, crying piteously, expressively, almost human. When I climbed the bridge I saw that there were two gulls, one impassioned, one looking on.. My friend was lovesick, courting, making his case.
Bought a Murano millifiori paperweight.
The Venetians do not blame me for Trump the way the Irish would. Sigh of relief.
TV: The Big Bang Theory sounds stupid in Italian.