Visions of Venice

It is usually this time of the year that Jack & I would plan our trips to Europe. October when the temperatures are cool and crisp and that time when the plague of tourists becomes diminished.











Driving through the hills of Tuscany on our way to Venice we streaked past so many hillside towns all beckoning us to stop awhile and rest our hurried heads. But time once again our enemy was in pursuit and we needed to get to the city of water before the evening shades were drawn.

Water to water and sunlight to dusk Venice stood proudly as we penetrated her veil of silence. It was a dank and pouting day when we entered into the magic of this solemn city. Our gondola parted the restless waters as we stepped out from the safety of the sheltering small tributaries and plunged into the vastness of the Grand Canal. I was taken by surprise at the greatness of this watery way for what had appeared to me to be a miniature maze had become colossal. It seemed only fitting that our welcome be a wet one since our hostess was the daughter of Neptune.

Our first morning arose like fire from the sea and steamed across the horizon. Framed in the ancient window of our hotel room San Giorgio stood transfixed by the fiery sunrise and floated on a mist of ether. Whether morning or evening, the skies over the lagoon were always ablaze with the molten surf of the sun. We wandered through our first day in Venice and, stopping only for brief bits of sustenance, explored our new world in wonderment. The city like a serpent ever winding enticed us on. If indeed Venice is sinking into the lagoon I’m sure that it will arise again for such a marvel could never be contained. Ignoring the rush of the rest of the world Venice floats serenely on a tapestry of renaissance splendor. Every brick and stone sang a song of past glories, every sight and smell a reminder of its mortality. A city of many seasons this Dowager sits on her tarnished throne and remembers moments of romance that have all but vanished in the dust of a new day, yet are easily distilled by the touch of her hand.

Following the Fall to Florence

In our garden a small bronze fountain spurts a gentle reminder of our wanderings throughout the ancient streets of Florence. I have never been much of a collector unless you count experience an object. But now in my middle years I find pleasure in reflections and my possessions have become the vessels in which they live. Coming to Florence from the lazy tranquility of Santa Marguarita Ligouri was the perfect way to begin this quest as the coastal retreat had bathed us in the Mediterranean sun and had healed our worn psyches preparing us perfectly for the fantastic feelings of a city steeped in the sensuality of timeless beauty. The winding streets of Florence are paved with the stones of centuries past, and their essence seemed to seep through the leather of our souls. Strolling through this maze of masterfully rendered architecture every door sang of its secrets while protecting the privacy of its dwellers. Upon our not so triumphant arrival the city at first kept us at bay, as though needing to know us better before giving up its splendid treasures. It confounded and confused us playing hide and seek until satisfied that we were worthy. Then embracing us long lost family bade us enter. Jack had been waiting for me at our appointed residence while I tried to find a resting place for the car. I had, disregarding all warnings, driven unabashedly into the teaming heart of a renaissance city suited mainly for motor bicycles and horses.

That evening the city opened its arms and offered up a sampling of its culinary delights. Entering a nearby bistro we immersed ourselves in the smells and flavors of a Florentine evening out. At the next table two bawdy women sat clouded in the smoke of too many cigarettes and spouting forth oaths of unrequited loves they played out their scene. A play that seemed adapted from a dusty paper back novel whose pages though yellowed by time would not give up its place on the shelf.

Summer Time

Long lazy afternoons

Trips to the country

The smell of wheat warming in the mid day sun

A picnic in the park

Cool dips in the lake

Warm rain showers in the afternoon

Grandma's Rhubarb pie

Lemonade

Summer Time

Old Glory & Never, Neverland

Something occurred to me last night as I sat immobile in my reclining chair curiously watching the HD, 3-D, digitized celebrations of the 4th. There seemed to be a kind of emptiness in this year’s festivities and I couldn’t help but wonder why. With a rather non-descript Jimmy Smits as host the show began with an anorexic Barry Manilow sporting a new toupee and belting out show tones. This was followed by the morbidly obese Aretha coughing out songs of past glory which then lead to the Jersey Boys? And what was that with the Muppets of Sesame Street being cuddled in the blossoms of Natasha Bedingfield. Of course there was the ubiquitous Erich Kunsel leading the National Symphony Orchestra, the Choral Arts Society of Washington and so on – but even they seemed sadly flat this year. The headlines of Michael, Fara, Ed, and Billy seemed to out shine our nation’s birthday.

Is this all that we could muster to welcome in a new year of triumph and victory? Where were the icons of the day and the energy of the past decades? Maybe we are all a little tired after the two year battle that has lead us to our newly anointed society. Or could it be that this new world with all its turmoil and passion is just resting for a moment and savoring a brief victory before putting on its new day robes and readying for the next conquest? I really hope so because now is not the time to stand still. There is too much yet to do. As Gore Vidal once said “our steadily proliferating species will either end in time or, with luck, become something else, since change is the nature of time and its hope” …

Time Travel

Yesterday was my best friend's birthday. The big "60"! The day was spent quietly with friends, eating and drinking, and just hanging out. It was a nice time to just kick back and enjoy the day. And since we both believe in extending the celebration into birthday "weeks" and "months" you can believe that we will be doing a lot more of the same!

For some reason most people dread birthdays. They seem to evoke feelings of melancholy or remorse. Melancholy for the loss of youth I guess or remorse that they have not used the time more productively. However not my friend nor I for that matter. Both of us have strangely enough enjoyed each and every birthday and milestone and have celebrated them with much joy and enthusiasm.

I remember my 20th year. I couldn't wait to be, officially, a young man, no longer a teenager with all of the baggage attached to that stigma. My 30th was a signal that I had become "mature" and that from then on I would be respected for my accomplishments. No longer a trainee in the game of life. 40 brought with it the freedom that comes with experience of the last 40 years. The seasoning of the life that I had endeavoured to create. 50 was a signal that I had arrived at the pinnacle of my career and could therefore take the time to enjoy more fully the fruits of my accomplishments. All that was fine but it took 60 to make me realize just how wonderful my previous 60 had been.

With 60 came the wrath of the downsizing, outsourcing and decontenting of a world rampant in it's greed and lust for wealth and power. But you know what else 60 brought? It brought us both the peace and security that we had so closely nurtured for those past 60 wonderful years. Because we had used the lessons of those years to build a safe port - a secure place to weather the storms.

So what do I like about being 60? Well, if nothing else, I don't have to go though my 50's again ...

Light comes to the forest

May 2009. I thought that it would never come. After a year of campaigning, a very emotional election and a recession rivaled only by the depression of 1929 there was little hope in my heart.

But then came May and with it a glimmer of hope. Hope that we had finally found our footings and are maybe ready to pick ourselves up and begin again. The long winter of discontent seems over for now and the stormy winds of change, both climate and politics, have cleared the way for a new and better day.

Perhaps the reason for all this change is more obvious than we can see. Doesn't it make sense that the large and sickly trees of the forest must in the end fall to make way for the young and new saplings to grow? And does it not seem possible that maybe, finally we might be on the right track again after our long journey into the forest of fear?