The sun disappears from the valley well before it actually goes down. My studio faces east and what I ever see of the sunset is maybe part of it’s reflection on the mountains opposite, or maybe red clouds in a rose-gold sky. There is a point every evening though, during the space between rose-gold and darkness, precisely at the moment of sunset, when the sky fills with birds. They swirl and caw and move in huge clouds from the flat of the valley up to the dark hills and out again and back... swooping, stirring, singing. Then, when it’s nearly dark, the sky suddenly empties. Why do they do that? Where do they go when they leave the sky? Why at the hour of sunset precisely? There’s likely a reason, neat and scientific. Or there is a story, tangled and poignant. I’ve asked around. Mostly no one knows. I’m disappointed at the lack of wonder and curiosity. This morning there was the usual accumulation of news, things that multiplied or divided in the night. I start with “La Prima Cosa Bella” (The first beautiful thing), a column at the top of La Repubblica’s home page that always looks for a little light in the dark situations described below it. G. starts with a report that more people are dying with this than they say. More people are infected than they can count. There are a lot of questions. Mostly no one knows. His mother calls. There’s the first case in the family: a cousin, a doctor who lives up north. He’s been hospitalized; intubated. His wife isn’t answering the phone and his son is too young to call. Everyone is waiting. I arrive at the studio and call the cat who still doesn’t come. I call anyway, out the front windows too. I’d already gone calling down a narrow lane across the street this morning, but all that came was a small black dog who just wanted a scratch behind the ears. I work without taking my usual afternoon nap, no 20 minutes of stillness today. I forget to. I’m absorbed. Light fades. I only hear it’s sundown from the birds.
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(A series of personal observations recorded as Italy takes action against the spread of Covid-19, ... still a day behind)
For the first time since the lockdown began, I actually stay home, inside, all day. I make us crepes for breakfast and then settle into the chair by the fireplace. There’s no fire, and there won’t be, but I can smell smoke every time the wind blows the smoke from someone else’s fire down our chimney. There’s been no fire since our chimney caught fire last year. Though not actually very dangerous—our buildings aren’t built of flammable materials and the fire didn’t escape the chimney—the episode was pretty terrifying and illuminated the fact that a chimney that zigzags it’s way to the roof is not a healthy chimney, even if it’s been like that for 40 years since the palazzo was hastily rebuilt after the earthquake. I’d been convinced it was poisoning us by smoke inhalation and carbon monoxide poisoning for some time and am not especially disappointed not to have a blaze going. (A series of personal observations recorded as Italy takes action against the spread of Covid-19,
first published March 22, 2020) I’ve just come home from the studio for lunch and he’s still in pajamas. This is unusual. I kiss his forehead. “No fever. “ I say. “I should take my temperature.” “I’m 100% sure that you don’t have a fever.” I say walking past him towards the kitchen. I take temperatures the way my mother did, with a kiss to the forehead. Only if it’s important to know the number do we take out a thermometer. I see that the thermometer is on the table by the sofa. “How many times have you taken your temperature today?” (A series of personal observations recorded as Italy takes action against the spread of Covid-19,
first published March 20, 2020) Usually I don’t see anyone when I go walking in the woods. Months will go by and maybe I will see one person collecting kindling and maybe I’ll see somebody else hunting mushrooms. I’ve learned seasons by questions like: where are you going? You going to pick chestnuts? The questions that come whenever I’m caught going up the hill by someone in town, as they remember something they did when they were children. There are few reasons to venture into the forest. (A series of personal observations recorded as Italy takes action against the spread of Covid-19,
first published March 19, 2020) Today is the festival of San Giuseppe. Yesterday, troops roll through Napoli, the seat of the region of Campania where I live. The day before that, my architect is stopped in the street in front of our studio. They tell him he has to work from home. If they see him again they will fine him. It doesn’t escape me that the origins of fascism are Italian. “Fascina”: a bundle of sticks, strength in unity. I’m sure it sounded reasonable at the time. “It doesn’t escape me that the origins of fascism are Italian.” I say. He thinks I’m overreacting. |
MBI added this blog as a way to share some thoughts and experiences around the impact of Covid-19 on my life here in Southern Italy. These posts have been a near-daily practice during this time and are largely unedited, most having been first posted on Facebook. They are of course in order with the most recent entry on the first page. I invite you to explore previous posts or even start from the beginning. Archives
June 2022
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