The Heart's Stone

I have this stone that I found on the beach in Nice at the very end of last year. It's shaped like a funny pickle, or depending how you look at it - a Henry Moore miniature. It's commonplace and grand at the same time. It seems to be my heart's stone. Each day that I glance at it, it's seemingly different. Yes, sure it retains its same basic shape, but the lines on its smooth skin change depending on the hour or on the warmth of my palm. It's my heart's stone. It's the pure essence of dichotomy, because it's at once something unchanging, unyielding, and yet open to everything. It's open to the world, to the marks of man, and open to its own personal wisdom of how it once belonged to something much bigger than itself. It's my heart's stone. And it is this stone that I cup in my hand that brings me the strength to keep searching in favor of my dream, in favor of my heart. Things are often unknowable to modern man, unknowable to me; but I find the truth of hundreds of years, of wars, of the past, and the fate of the natural world in this rock. It's my heart's stone. It is smooth, save for one deep small crevice where it was detached from its mother stone. The crack reminds me that all things came from somewhere, and we all are headed somewhere, even when things are dark, and there is absolutely no presence of the moon. My heart's stone sits on my bedside table, and it is there to bid me good night, and good morning each night and day. It's my heart's stone. I have this stone that I found on the beach in Nice at the very end of last year. It's shaped like a funny pickle, or depending how you look at it - a Henry Moore miniature. It's amazing that it was put in my gaze, and now is temporarily in my possession. It seems to react to its new environment, by showing me the way of the world through its ever changing white lines. Its capricious. It's my heart's stone. It is forever stagnant. It is forever active. The lines of its trials and tribulations, of its triumphs, of its magnitude are there for all to see. And for now, it's the closest thing I have to enlighten me about the mysteries of the universe. It's my heart's stone. It gives me the will to proceed with my plans. It gives my heart the light it needs to realize the dreams I hold dear. It's my heart's stone.

Zucchero

There's nothing more comforting to me than someone asking "how are you?" Especially when it comes in Italian: "Come stai?" Lately, I've needed to be asked this. In Italian. By a man. It wasn't a close friend who asked me recently. "Come stai?" It was Zucchero, the eponymous Italian pop singer. And he wasn't directing his heartfelt question at me, but no matter, I'll take it. It's no small wonder that his name means "sugar" in Italian, as his music goes down easy. Very easy. And nothing has touched me more in these last days, as the warm way his sugary manly voice sings "come stai," in his pop ballad "Senza Una Donna" or "Without a Woman." I've had that song on repeat, or more precisely, I've hit the back-up button, so I could hear him say "come-stai?" Crazy? Yes, a little. But I'm a woman in transition, and I need all the cuddly warmth I can get my hands on. My heart and soul are already in Italy, just have to get the practicalities to follow. The need to be there is not borne out of a scraping need to be with any one person, but just an itching need to be in the country; to be living and working in that enveloping bloom of a place that has arrested my heart and my head. It seems my life depends on it. Dramatic? Yes! But I've never been a wall-flower, or a pansy, I want what I want. And I want this, and I see very clearly that there is no choice, but to have it. And to have it soon. Until then, Zucchero, will ask me how I am, to which I'll reply, "cosi-cosi," or so-so, or even "bene bene," or good good. But what I really want to say is "buonissima," roughly translated as luxurious, or terrifically wonderful. And I can only say that when I'm there, in Italy.

Movin' Out

What's there to say? I'm movin' out. I'm moving out of the small, charming apartment that marked the beginning of my "adulthood" - of living alone, and independent from parents, boyfriends, and pets. It was just me. Me and the skylight, me and the cat urine that would sometimes seep into my apartment from the reclusive, crazy downstairs that keeps twenty-five cats as prisoners in her small studio. I don't really know how many poor cats are shacked up in there, but it smells like the detritus of two thousand five hundred unhappy felines. But the apartment afforded me a look into myself, what I want to do, what am I doing, and what am I going to do? The apartment also bore witness to my ruts, my fits of joy, of sadness, of anger, of disillusionment, and of excitement. If the walls had ears, they would say, "Gee Clover, you've lived a hundred lives in this apartment." And now I am leaving. Where am I going, my friends want to know. I am temporarily moving into my parent's home before I relocate to Europe. My girlfriend just asked me if I'm freaking out? No, I replied. I have a goal in mind. If I didn't have a goal, I would be indeed, freaking out. But there's the rest of my good life waiting for me; and I want it to start right away, right now in fact. I am looking forward to it. So there's the boxes, the packing, the temporary feeling of regression as I reintegrate myself into my old childhood room, but those feelings and reactions will be fast and sweeping, and perhaps a little reassuring before everything in my life changes rather drastically. I will miss the overwhelming, all-encompassing light in my apartment from the skylight that stupidly sits above my bed. Don't think I ever got a good night of sleep in this apartment, as a cause of the light from the sun and moon. Recently, there was some sort of pigeon massacre on the other side of the glass. And now there is a sad, grisly postmortem display of feathers, and disembodied pigeon legs hanging. This has framed my view of the sky these past few days. Terrible. You probably think at this point that I live in an animal house, I don't, I didn't. There were just some problems with the place, it was, shall we say, less than ideal. And now it's an end of an era for me. I don't quite feel it yet. But I haven't started to pack yet, and maybe once I do, and see the remnants of the life I lived in this here apartment, I will feel differently. But I don't think so. I'm "Movin' Out." Thanks for the song Billy Joel. I'll listen to it while I'll box up my old life.

Defective

I'm not nearly as obnoxious about my birthday as I used to be. In fact, this past January 29th marked a special kind of birthday-bashfulness on my part. Friends and family were not used to it; they thought something was wrong. I was out-of-character reasonable. I reminded friends a mere two or three times that it was my birthday month, my birthday week, my birth day. Nothing's wrong, except that I want to get back to Italy. My mind is fixed on this goal. Nothing can deter me; even my birthday. Funny thing is that New York also was rather blase about it. My birthday that is. No surprise there. It hates me, remember? Anyway, plans fell through, lunch at an expensive restaurant was unforgettably disappointing, and the pear tart (I don't like cake) that my mom ordered in commemoration of my birth did not make an appearance. The bakery forgot to make it. It seems that the gradual forward-motion in my life is not allowable in this city; and that's why I choose to continue the rest of my life in Italy. But what really got my inner goat, and at the same time tickled my funny bone is what I saw in the depths of the subway. Not a rat. But something much more literal which has stayed with me nearly two weeks later. The story is small, but it speaks large. In an effort to refill her MetroCard, my mom tried four of those darling MetroCard vending machines, whose sole purpose is to refill. None of them worked. The MTA attendant who happened to be standing there jotting some never-ending note on her pad, observed my mother's frustration, but did nothing to alleviate it. My mom asked her repeatedly if she could help us. We didn't even get a nod of recognition. But I noticed that the MTA worker had some sort of name tag on her lapel, and instead of a name, it just read "Defective." My mom whispered to me and asked me if it said "Detective?" No, I said, just "Defective." "Defective" like the help we were not getting, "Defective" in the way you can spend a fortune in NY and still receive mediocre, or even bad food, "Defective" in the way people just ram into each other on any given sidewalk, and don't say sorry, "Defective" as in imperfect in form and function, faulty. This city is faulty. And it's also funny because it pokes fun at itself, like the woman proudly and defiantly wearing the word "Defective" as her namesake. She finally looked up, as if she heard me call her name. "What can I do for you?" she just barely inquired, one eye stuck on her God-forsaken pad. My mom explained she just wanted to refill. "Defective" replied, if you can call it a reply. "What aspect of your refilling is not working." My mom glanced at me, and said namely the refilling. Darling "D" then repeated her question. Gee, "aspect" was the word of the evening alongside "D" for "Defective." Nothing was resolved, and my mom left refill-less. My birthday turned out to be somewhat defective, but I could care less. I just want to defect.

The Glow

Sometimes moms are right. I'd like to think my mom is more right than wrong when it comes to a lot of things. She is especially right when it comes to The Glow. I've been hearing about the effects of The Glow for sometime now; ever since I was little. And for all intents and purposes The Glow always does its job as glows tend to do. The details are the following. Each and every time I go away on a trip, it has to be overseas for some unknown reason, and I come back to NY, I have a post-coital glow about me. It's not that I have been making love to an entire foreign country, but in a sense the foreign country has been making love to me. The stranger status serves me well on foreign soil, and I am made welcome, primed, and handed back to my homeland in better condition than when I left. The Glow is ephemeral though, and just like love, you never know when and where it will take its last bow. But there is a never-ending supply of Glows to be had, which makes me happy when my Glow is up. Anyway, let me tell you about my latest Glow; the Glow I got from my three month stay in Italy where I worked and loved and ate and drank. I think that this Glow is the longest-lasting, and the most potent. This Glow has given me more than any other Glow in the past. It has bequeathed on me an airy, light demeanor, full of happiness, and mystery. It's like I ordered to Glow to go, with exact specifications, and maybe I was just ready for it. But here goes. New York, you know the one that has hated me for some time, has treated me differently since I've returned from Italy. There is no simple understanding of this phenomenon. I think it's a matter of mathematics, having no common division except unity, or something about magnetic force or planetary conjunction. Anyway, I'll cut the mumbo-jumbo. It's about unity. Unity of thought, of dreams, of experience, of love, of happiness. I seem to sparkle even when I'm taking my dog out in the slush, even though I haven't taken a shower, and my nose is shiny, and I even might smell. Men stare, women stare. What's it all about? Inner peace? Men talk to me, women talk to me. People return my calls. Wow-wee. Thank you Glow! But when is the honeymoon over? When will the Glow fade? Is it gradual? Or is it wham-bam, Glow gone? Which would be easier? I don't know, both options are for the birds! But hark! I am returning to Italy soon. For a long time. Maybe for a lifetime. I'll get a whole new Glow on. And when I return to NY one day, for a visit, people might just freeze up, because they know that I know that my Glow is contagious. As all happiness and good feelings are. Clo thanks you for the Glow. So, my advice is to go away if you can, preferably to Europe, and come back, and you will experience a whole new reaction. And don't be afraid to lose the Glow, because everything after all is temporary.