n i g h t i n g a l e s h i r a z / blog
Romantic Hotel, indeed.

june 2023
january 2023
december 2022
september 2022
august 2022
july 2022
january 2022
november 2021
october 2021
september 2021
august 2021
july 2021
june 2021
may 2021
april 2021
march 2021
february 2021
january 2021
september 2020
august 2020
july 2020
may 2020
april 2020
march 2020
february 2020
december 2019
october 2019
july 2019
june 2019
may 2019
april 2019
march 2019
february 2019
january 2019
december 2018
november 2018
october 2018
september 2018
august 2018
july 2018
june 2018
may 2018
april 2018
march 2018
february 2018
january 2018
december 2017
november 2017
october 2017
september 2017
august 2017
july 2017
june 2017
march 2017
february 2017
january 2017
november 2016
october 2016
september 2016
august 2016
july 2016
june 2016
may 2016
april 2016
march 2016
february 2016
december 2015
november 2015
october 2015
september 2015
may 2015
march 2015
february 2015
january 2015
december 2014
november 2014
october 2014
september 2014
august 2014
may 2014
april 2014
march 2014
february 2014
*april 2013
*march 2013
*february 2013
*january 2013
*december 2012
*november 2012
*october 2012
*september 2012
*july 2012
*october 2011
*september 2011
*august 2011
*july 2011
*june 2011
*may 2011
april 2011
march 2011
april 2010
march 2010
february 2010
january 2010
december 2009
november 2009
september 2009
june 2009
may 2009
february 2009
january 2009
december 2008
october 2008
september 2008
august 2008
july 2008
june 2008
may 2008
april 2008
january 2008
december 2007
november 2007
october 2007
september 2007
august 2007
july 2007
june 2007
may 2007
april 2007
march 2007
february 2007
january 2007
december 2006
november 2006
october 2006
september 2006
august 2006
july 2006
june 2006
may 2006
april 2006
march 2006
february 2006
january 2006
december 2005
november 2005
october 2005
september 2005
august 2005
july 2005
june 2005
may 2005
april 2005
march 2005
february 2005
january 2005
december 2004
november 2004
october 2004
september 2004
august 2004
july 2004
june 2004
may 2004
april 2004
march 2004
february 2004
january 2004
december 2003
june 2003
april 2003
march 2003

I walk around Rome.  Walking around Rome always works.

Today I am intranquilla.  Uncharitable, Forster would say (or rather, Mr Beebe would say), to everyone.  Including and especially, at Franco who is only trying to fix my gas main, and bangs on my door at nine in the morning on a day off: I am dressed inappropriately, and have to rummage for a tee-shirt (exponentially more activity than I would like to be doing four seconds after waking up, and without coffee), before scrambling to open the door, and he is oh-so-fucking cheerful and suddenly-bewildered by my face, because my face does not look anything like the smiley one he sees most mornings, after I have showered, had coffee, and half-an-hour to stare into the morning and make peace with wakefulness.  "Non stai bene?"  He is so very annoyingly concerned.  I hate when people are blamelessly nice to your bad mood.  It means you have to hate them, and feel like a bitch for it as well.

I need to go somewhere.  Even if I have not decided it, it seems that everyone around me has.  (Carlos mentions workaholism: "The first step, is admitting that you have a problem...")

More importantly, I am not liking things.  I am sick of Romans and their rough edges.  (Enough.  It is not all that charming, this Romanaccio sound and stage.)  I am annoyed with the cerotti i have bought for the tops of my heels, where the new shoes are chafing.  They (the cerotti) fall off in all of four minutes.  I am dissatisfied with the friends -- even and especially the ones I like and respect -- who are so firmly ensconced in their FAO bubbles -- so entrenched in conversations that seem to me so shallow and so centred on so specific a life.  It feels like I am back in Karachi, listening to everyone complain about their servants.  Cry me a river, indeed.

I feel like Lucy, after the Beethoven.  Only not very decided, at all.

I think I need to be some place that's not here.

[nightingaleshiraz] [?]
[Via Marco Aurelio, Roma]
[luned́ 22 giugno 2009 ore 16:41:23] []


At Emporio alla Pace, a girl in a deep blue jersey dress wears a pair of lovely yellow wedge shoes.  (I may not like wedge shoes, but she has good reason to feel differently.)  She also wears a perfectness of brown curls, and gray-blue eyes that flicker against the blue dress, and against a red couch.  If I choose to curl my hair again this winter, for the second time in my life.  It will be because of you, blue-dress girl.

From the conversation that ensues, the bartender is telling her not to go, to stay here.  They are talking about Iran.  She seems to be trying, in terms of articulating the complexity of politics that defines so many of our countries (third-world, and/or Islamic republic, and/or dictatorial, and/or under martial law, and/or all of the above).  And she seems to be failing, as is common, against a Roman who is more taken with drawing (loudly, as always), what he thinks are the obvious parallels to Berlusconi ("E' la stessa cosa: nessuno ha votato per lui, neanche.")

I used to think the world would be a better place if people would read newspapers from other countries.  Maybe I'm dreaming too high.  They should probably start by reading newspapers from their own country.

But perhaps I am being unfair.  This is not a people known for subtlety.  (It is a reason to love them, too.)  Why should I expect them, suddenly, to sense the complexities, the intricate not-quite-simplistics, of their own politics, let alone that of others?

Black-and-white thinking has its place.  In the way you choose to live your life, and in the way you live with those choices.  I know why I am thinking about this today, why so much of what I think about these days, has to do with black and white and right and wrong and the fact that the word principle should have a capital P, and that if you find you are lower-casing that P when it happens to suit you (or when "you're not hurting anyone," or "everyone else is doing it anyway and always has,") -- well then it's not really a principle at all, is it.

It's weird to feel so clearly, in the face of those who are older than you, that you disagree.  And maybe this is a bit of a high horse I am insisting on riding.  But I don't believe there's a better way to walk this wild west trail of mire and meanness, other than on this high horse.  Not if I want to skip the quicksand.

[nightingaleshiraz] [?]
[L'Emporio alla Pace, Roma]
[domenica 21 giugno 2009 ore 16:59:14] []

it is fate...

...but call it Italy if pleases you Vicar.

A young girl, transfigured by Italy! And why shouldn't she be transfigured?

Why shouldnt she, indeed.

[nightingaleshiraz] [?]
[L'Emporio alla Pace, Roma]
[domenica 21 giugno 2009 ore 16:38:14] []