​It has been too long since I last wrote; I believe my last entry was in November of 2016.  Yes, too long!  My sabbatical year had ended, I returned to teaching and my time was and has not been mine until now—summer break and back in Italy.  Ah, Italy, such a beautifully frustrating place where nature stupefies, envelopes and awes and let’s not forget Italians, more specifically, Sicilians who ‘keep calm’ and say ‘futtitinni’ (let it go/who cares/don’t worry about it/explicitly speaking, fuck it).  

It’s a part of the Sicilian philosophy of life.  It’s part of what makes the island so raw and beautiful; however, I believe sometimes that philosophy can be detrimental when taken too far.  When we are dealing with the so-called garbage of life the process of Letting Go can be very therapeutic but, as with many things, a balance must be found.  I am speaking garbage.   I am speaking literal garbage.
 
I wrote and created a video about ‘U Rittufilu’, (which literally means the straight line), the street that takes you from Bagheria, Sicily to its smaller territory known as the town of Aspra.  I posted it last summer.  The via was a little cleaner or at least that was my impression-- maybe I had been in Sicily for so long that I too, like many inhabitants, didn’t see the garbage along the via which is officially named Corso Scaduto.
Sicily, specifically the town of Bagheria, in the past year or so has gotten much better with their garbage situation.
Today, Bagheria has gotten rid of the giant garbage dumpsters that sat on the streets and changed to a scheduled pick up garbage service where recycling is done--it’s working!  However, I have to add a however, there aren’t many smaller garbage bins along the walkways and streets which unfortunately motivates the people who already live with a futtitinni philosophy to throw their trash on the street.  That trash is eventually picked up/swept up and the streets are clean until the next day where again the trash is thrown on the streets, and the cycle repeats itself.  I wonder if the ‘cestini’ (garbage bins) were to be added, Sicilians would eventually be discouraged to throw their trash on the streets.  I say eventually because here in Sicily change or I should say mentality changes at a snail’s pace, so slowly that it almost doesn’t change at all yet in the midst of this very slow paced psychological change are very fast technological and sociological changes—everyone has a cellphone and a new pseudo intellectual group has grown where they all have a Moscow Mule in one hand, a rolled cigarette in another and a new furry friend by their side.  Yet, the cigarette and their pet’s feces are left on the street and the napkin that came with their drink lies nearby.

​          I was not looking through the lens of my video camera or my 35mm auto focus Nikon, (no iPhone cameras back then); I wasn’t wearing sunglasses either.  The landscape that surrounded me was recorded by the naked eye and developed by the senses.  How can I explain it?  How can I explain nature coming in?  Have you ever felt peace?  How can I explain peace?
            Many have had the opportunity to see a setting sun over a lake, sea, or ocean.  Some, like me, are mesmerized, drawn to its colors, affix to its slow, slumbering, hypnotic dance down the horizon and some look, see it and simply ignore it.  Years ago, [seems like yesterday], I watched a Sicilian beach reflect colors of a sun falling below the water’s horizon.  The intensity of color hypnotized my sight.  Reds collided with night blues, yellows caressed browns of mountain cliffs, and orange streaked across waves of emerald green.
            There were two little boys, around the age of ten that played along the rocky shore.  We shared the same setting but experienced a different image.  The boys laughed as they threw stones against the incoming waves.  I watched motionless and absorbed the picture that unraveled in front of me.  This scenic beach was common- place for the two Italian boys who played amongst the Sicilian colors.  For the boys it became a playground and for me a sanctuary. The different view of our shared set could have been explained by age.  I have my doubts, however, since I could have played in this place too.
            Nature and its paint- brush imprinted a visual memory in my mind.  I remember the weightlessness I felt and my eyes overwhelmed became heavy.  I then recall closing them for a moment.
            I now just imagined the landscape of the Sicilian Sea and its setting sun as my eyes rest still behind the dark of my lids.  The noise of passing cars and motor scooters became faint and the sounds of the beach grew loud.  Waves crashed against the rocky shore and a rhythmic beat reached my ears.  Laughter of little boys added to the music the Mediterranean composed.
            I heard the enchanting voices of the Sirens singing Poseidon’s song.  Mythological chants that lured sailors were now luring me.  I wondered if the boys on the beach heard it too.  I was amazed by the quality of sound the sea produced.  My stereo could have never orchestrated this kind of music.  Waves bore brassy bellows as they hit the shore.  Winds whispered nature’s secrets in my ear and laughter contributed to the melody.  This song made me realize the tremendous power the waters possessed and a curious fear enveloped me.  My eyes opened.
            The Mediterranean’s strength surprised me.  I don’t quite understand why I stopped listening and opened my eyes.  Did my blindness create fear?  Or was it my sight?  The pure mystery of the sea beginning to reveal itself and I digressed.  My eyes were now open and the thunderous noise of the street entered onto the beach.  Screeching brakes of motorcycles and Fiats stained the street with black.  The sounds of beep-beep-beep and vroommm echoed through the air.  The melodies of the water clashed with the sounds of vehicles and the Sirens’ voices changed.
            The songs of the sea lost their purity and became polluted by outside clatter.  The sounds of the beach had become muffled and all I could hear from the shore was laughter.
            The opposing movements provided an eccentricity to my surroundings.  The downward motion of the sun combining with the rise and fall of waves accentuated by the moon’s light added a new dimension to my Sicilian setting.  The continuity of the water’s dance now entertained me unlike its sights and sounds.  The Sicilian Sea’s energy became apparent and it called me to its shore.  I walked, feeling the rough stones beneath my bare feet, and joined the two boys at play.
            There were no formal introductions.  The boys invited me as they handed me some stones.  I mimicked the boys and threw the stones against the rolling waves.  My arm moving with the wind gave the stones great velocity, as they glided, skipped and then dropped into the sea.  This was fun.  My laughter joined in with that of the boys and our game continued.  The water’s energy grew stronger and called me a little closer.  My feet sunk into the water’s sand and ripples circled my legs.  I walked further and further until the water completely engulfed me.  It was cool but comfortable and as I began to swim, pushing the water out and away with my arms, it became warm.  It was the boys that now mimicked me and jumped into the waves.  I now physically felt the landscape and the music, which had mesmerized me earlier that evening.
            As I got out of the sea, the sun was no longer a piece of the setting.  The moon was my light.  The boys went home and I threw one final stone.  Lifting my wet body up and over my scooter’s seat, I noticed the movement of the water had changed.  It was slower.  The wave’s rapid pace had subsided and its tread had become soft.  The shore exposed more of itself. 
            I drove my scooter and watched the beach move further away through the reflection of the side mirror.  I felt myself ride with the brisk air.  I felt my face pressed against the wind.  I felt motion, I felt light and it felt good.

November 1st is All Saints Day, a national holiday in Italy, where all saints are honored and on November 2nd it is “Il Giorno dei Morti”, the day where all those that have passed are remembered and celebrated.  This tradition dates back before Christianity to the Roman Pagans and today for many Italian families it has become a time to celebrate and honor the lives and memories of those close to them who have passed on and have not been forgotten.
 
If you’d like to know more about ‘Ognissanti’ All Saints and All Souls Day in Italy click here and here…

I dedicate this post to all those who have lost a loved one and continue to honor and remember their lives, memory and spirit.  I write this post for my grandfather, Mister Fee-leap…

He had these eyes that mirrored the colors of the Mediterranean Sea and their depths matched.  When he looked at you, he looked through you, inside of you and knew exactly who you were.  He always read people well and always gave them the benefit of the doubt.  “All I really know is that we live and we die.”  He said this when he got the news that a close friend had died.  Those words rang an uncomfortable and cold reality to my ears.  It seemed so sad, simple, and somewhat cliché’ of a phrase but it was his truth-its how he reacted to the news.   My grandfather raised me and I learned the value of nature, its beauty and its rage.  I had gotten philosophy lessons and words from Socrates to Nietzsche before I was even able to read Where the Sidewalk Ends.  He had taught me to experience the moment, to be in the present before the trend of the New Age movement.  “I’m meditating, “ he’d say, with one hand placed on his forehead as he sat at the kitchen table.  He called it meditating.  I thought he looked more like stone, marble maybe like Rodin’s statue of the Thinker.  He looked worried.
His passion was clothing.  He was a tailor; somewhat of a dying profession today but back then it was quite profitable.  He made business suits for businessmen and eventually businesswomen.  Years after, I was shocked and surprised to see all these men and women at his funeral; it was like a revolving door of memories.  People I had known as a child running around in the clothing store, zigzagging through hung cotton of gray, blue, brown and black.  He never once scolded me.  That’s what they all were saying.  “Do you remember the time you knocked over the mannequin?”  “I remember when you spilled your Coca-Cola on Mr. Frank’s brand new pants. Mr. Fee-leap never said anything.”  That’s what everyone called him.  Mr. Fee-leap.  “God, that man loved you.”  I listened.  I remembered.  I knew and I know.