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Francesca walks in to pick up her evening shift here at Passaguai, where I am overstaying my one-wine-welcome and writing and writing and writing (thank goodness and oh look, alliteration...). She passes me on the way to change in the back, and stops to hug-and-hello in that way that only happens in Italian winebars where they know you. Then she holds out a stick of Fruitella – and in a flash we're both of us gushing about the memories this brings on. I tell her how I would choose this, over potato chips, for school lunch in third grade. She tells me how she would pick out her favorite flavors from a new stick, unwrap them all, and stack them up to make triple- and quadruple-decker sandwiches. How she’d not be able to talk for un quarto d'ora after these “bites.” Her story was so much better than mine.
[nightingaleshiraz] [?]
[Via Giulio Cesare, Santa Marinella]
[giovedě 17 settembre 2015 ore 16:20:11] [¶]
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The fact that Sophia Loren's “favorite princess” is Princess Kate.
“I love her and the husband too.”
The first thing Mastrojanni said to you.
(Twice.)
The fact that, at least allegedly, Graham Green wrote five hundred words a day.
And not one more.
That according to Facebook's branding rules and regulations, the Like button “should not replace the word 'like' and can only be used to invite someone to take a Facebook like action.”
That in 2013, an Italian man under house arrest asked to go to prison.
To escape his wife.
The possibility that Roberto Benigni once said, “Sometimes poetry, it is incomprehensible.”
“But we need incomprehensible stuff!”
That there is, carved into the stone of a nineteenth century bust of Washington Irving in Prospect Park, “a mysterious period.”
“Irving.”
The way that, according to Eric Foley at Numéro Cinq, Karl Ove Knausgaard “vividly captures the feel of early love.”
“We had no sense of anything awaiting us except happiness.”
That line inscribed on Dante's (actual) tomb in Ravenna: “parvi Florentia mater amoris.”
“Florence, mother of little love.”
[nightingaleshiraz] [?]
[Via Giulio Cesare, Santa Marinella]
[domenica 06 settembre 2015 ore 17:16:17] [¶]
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This was the summer I read Rilke
real Rilke
for the first time.
This was the summer of tutte le direzioni and some senso unico.
This was the summer of becoming incomplete.
This was the summer of meeting Angelo at last, at Cornelia Street Café. Of what he said to me about friends that don't like poetry. (Dump'em.)
This was a summer nobody died in. Nobody I love, anyway.
This was the summer of invisible sea dust and unfastened darkness. Of flying drinking living and a metaphorical blue in a sea of silver syllables. Of scraps of sunsets and the plastic material between moments.
This was the summer I met Zari
for the first time.
[nightingaleshiraz] [?]
[Via Giulio Cesare, Santa Marinella]
[mercoledě 02 settembre 2015 ore 09:32:16] [¶]
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