January 17, 2011


This Could Be Any Moment, Anywhere, But It’s Here.

The bed has an old green velvet headboard, and one button missing, dimple showing cheekily.

The bed has an old green velvet headboard, and the wineglass on the nightstand table is half-drunk, tiny little effervescent bubbles still not popped— a pinot grigio, lively, and bright in the soft yellow light of the nightstand’s lamp. 

The bed has an old green velvet headboard, the wineglass on the nightstand table is half-drunk, and the music in the background is a strain of plucking chords, melding male and female voice, tenor and alto, one octave up, one octave down, reverberations and melody, and is soothing and sleepy. 

The bed has an old green velvet headboard, the wineglass on the nightstand is half-drunk, the music in the background is a strain of plucking chords, and the book is surreal and contemporary and just a little bit pretentious for the sake of being surreal and contemporary and pretentious, even though it was written by an Argentinian author in 1966, during what could probably be called the Age Of Writer’s Pretension. 

The bed has an old green velvet headboard, the wineglass on the nightstand table is half-drunk, the music in the background is a strain of plucking chords, the book is surreal and contemporary and just a little bit pretentious, and the ashes in the elegant blue and brown cut-glass ashtray (also a bit pretentious,) still smell like smoke, still just a little bit alive, still potent and pungent and arresting at the corner of the senses, trying to grab attention for another go, another full-frontal assault on health and good, clean habits and mind over matter. 

The bed has an old green velvet headboard, the wineglass on the nightstand table is half-drunk, the music in the background is a strain of plucking chords, the book is surreal and contemporary and just a little bit pretentious, the ashes in the elegant ashtray still smell like smoke, and I am struck with the sudden crashing revelation that outside of these few mundane details in this scene, I am in a totally foreign country, and knowing this, listen to the rumble of trucks and small cars and the high whine of mopeds and the tic-tic-tic of high heels on the uneven sidewalk and shouting in Italian and the screech of bus brakes and that nothing (save maybe the cigarette smoke and the music,) is familiar and I am quite possibly living precariously outside of my own life, in this strange and beautiful new and oh-so-very-old city, just buying time here, (another 81 days, 1944 hours, and a fuck-ton of minutes, breaths, sighs, strange words, and laughs,) until I can re-enter Life As I Know It, Take Two, and then, that will seem strange and foreign, and I will find myself longing for the missing half-glass of wine already drunk from the half-drunk wineglass on this nightstand table, and for the high whine of mopeds, and the tic-tic-tic of wooden heels on worn-down sidewalks, missing my alien outlook on life, a spectator instead of a member in this sport.

The bed has an old green velvet headboard, and one button missing, dimple showing cheekily.

XOXO

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Firenze Repeated Lines Creative Non-Fiction Things I Miss Like A Lost Limb

January 23, 2011


January 28, 2011


There is NOTHING like the golden Italian sunlight in the morning.
Florence, Italy.
XOXO

There is NOTHING like the golden Italian sunlight in the morning.

Florence, Italy.

XOXO

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Firenze Italia Duomo Sunlight Things I Miss Like A Lost Limb

January 29, 2011


February 3, 2011


woquinoncoin:

caffe italiano


Add a pair of heels, and this pretty much sums up the Italian experience.
Oh, I miss it so!
XOXO

woquinoncoin:

caffe italiano

Add a pair of heels, and this pretty much sums up the Italian experience.

Oh, I miss it so!

XOXO

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Italia Cars Food Life Things I Miss Like A Lost Limb Art

February 6, 2011


Despite the fact that I woke up next to a man cuddled up beside me, I think I’d trade it to go back to Florence after looking at photos someone posted of la citta from the overlook at Piazza Michaelangelo. Or, better yet, go back to Florence…but WITH a man this time, and catch a break from the local men.

That sounds like the PERFECT plan.

…I would give a lot of things to be able to go back to Florence.

XOXO

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Italia Firenze Life Things I Miss Like A Lost Limb Men

February 10, 2011


February 15, 2011


You know you’ve spent a lot of time someplace and have a whole lot of love for it when you recognize it, blanketed in snow, by the storefronts.
I’ve walked between those stone balls the woman with the red umbrella is, but it never snowed this much in Firenze when I was there. Ohhhhhh, how I miss it, even with Vermont-like amounts of snow. I would give a lot in life to be in a cafe sipping on an espresso right now after an afternoon of shopping.
XOXO

You know you’ve spent a lot of time someplace and have a whole lot of love for it when you recognize it, blanketed in snow, by the storefronts.

I’ve walked between those stone balls the woman with the red umbrella is, but it never snowed this much in Firenze when I was there. Ohhhhhh, how I miss it, even with Vermont-like amounts of snow. I would give a lot in life to be in a cafe sipping on an espresso right now after an afternoon of shopping.

XOXO

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Italia Firenze Things I Miss Like A Lost Limb Places I've Been Snow Winter Life

February 21, 2011


thedeadwidow:

Food Displays at Florence, Italy. 

I’m obviously having as bad nostalgia day for Florence. Let’s hope that going out to lunch with my favorite man— Dad— helps to cure it a little. But where to go, where to go, where to go…
XOXO

thedeadwidow:

Food Displays at Florence, Italy. 

I’m obviously having as bad nostalgia day for Florence. Let’s hope that going out to lunch with my favorite man— Dad— helps to cure it a little. But where to go, where to go, where to go…

XOXO

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Italia Firenze Things I Miss Like A Lost Limb Food