Correspondence Two
Another letter! I am astounded. In the last three weeks, I have received notes from THREE people who are actively seeking letter writing partners. I know none of these people. They want: the most personal of trinkets (for a letter is something directed at only one person, made for one set of eyes: one of the most personal things I can think of) from someone that they have never had a personal connection with. They want: annonymous love. Unspecific specific attention. Amazing. I love it. I love that people want to use a pen and paper. I love that they want to buy stamps. I love that these people connected with me via the internet (a blog is the ultimate oxymoron in this sense: is its audience highly personal or entirely impersonal?) and made a conscious effort to move our relationship to paper from the screen. Lets all write letters! Let us all find the nearest pen, the closest scrap of paper, and scribble to someone who has influenced us, who we love, who we want to imagine holding something we made in their hands!
W is for Winter
It is your first winter, I know. You are a like baby in the snow: you do not know how to walk here, how to hold your head up, how to dress yourself. You are far from your mother, who generally tucks you in and outfits you. You are far from your warm-blooded father, who did not give you his warm blood. But do not fret, my darling, for I love you. I will tell you how to keep warm.
First, you must find a room to rent, for an indoor space is important this time of year. To find a room you must walk to the university quarter, down the ominous Via Zamboni, a street that is darkened by porticos and inhabited by thieves. Do not be frightened here, my love, for the street dwellers will not harm you. They will try to sell you a bicycle, that is all, or a knotted bundle of hashish. Do not buy anything from them, but rather use your time to scour the walls of the university buildings for promising leaflets. You might find one that says quarto doppio but you do not want to share a room. You might find one that says quarto singolo but you do not want to be alone. Find one that says termostifone, which indicates that there will be a heater in your new room: the most important thing is keeping warm.
Your new room is on Via Parigi, number eleven. It is on the second floor, above the café with the drummers and tambourine men. Tell them ciao ciao when you enter the building. Tell them la musica! Move your hands up and down for them, the musicians, for they will be the ones who save you this winter. They will be in the café at three in the morning. Four in the morning. Banging chi chi chi. Singing cha cha cha. The tambourine going ting ting ting. Filling your room with spirits as you try to sleep.
Your new roommates are three women. Georgia works at the gothic bar on weekends and has a Nightmare Before Christmas backpack. Valeria is the beautiful one. She studies chemistry in the daytime and gets sadly drunk on white wine from a glass with a broken stem at night. Lisa is the English one with the fat boyfriend called Umbi. You will all keep to your rooms most of the time, but on occasion you will see each other in the kitchen or the hallway, mistaking each other for phantoms and scaring each other away.
Going outside can be difficult. Wear the Indian boots made of polar bear fur so your feet do not get cold. Wear the pea coat you bought for one hundred Euros at Piero Fontina Designs. Walk anywhere you want: you have nowhere to be. Attend the market off of Piazza Maggiore – the tangerines are good this time of year. The chestnuts. The meats and cheeses are always good. Buy enough for one person. If your hands are cold while peeling the tangerine, buy a pair of gloves.
Go home, now. It is cold outside. Your ears are freezing up like hard candies. Your heart has become an iceberg. Try your hardest not to cry, now, even though you will fall on the slippery sidewalk on your way home. Even though no one will hold your hand. I love you, darling. Remember that. I think you have the warmest heart. I write you emails every day. Go home and check your email. I wrote you an email about what I did in California today. I didn’t do anything special. You are out in the world, experiencing everything. You are learning about the world. You are learning how to say formaggio. You are learning how to wave your hands like birds wings when you talk. How noble of you. How brave.
At home Georgia will be waiting for you with a surprise. She has made pasta for lunch, and has set you a spot at the table. She is wearing thick black eyeliner, but what a heart she has! She has poured you a glass of wine. Valeria is there; it is midday; they have turned the heater on; Lisa is there with Umbi; the pasta is warm and thick and Georgia has chopped zucchini and melanzane for the sauce; the wine in the afternoon makes the world turn red; the yellow lamp hangs over the kitchen table like a sun; the fog on the windows where the indoor warmth meets the cold outside; the warm drops of fog on the windows, the condensation on the windows, the condensation.
First, you must find a room to rent, for an indoor space is important this time of year. To find a room you must walk to the university quarter, down the ominous Via Zamboni, a street that is darkened by porticos and inhabited by thieves. Do not be frightened here, my love, for the street dwellers will not harm you. They will try to sell you a bicycle, that is all, or a knotted bundle of hashish. Do not buy anything from them, but rather use your time to scour the walls of the university buildings for promising leaflets. You might find one that says quarto doppio but you do not want to share a room. You might find one that says quarto singolo but you do not want to be alone. Find one that says termostifone, which indicates that there will be a heater in your new room: the most important thing is keeping warm.
Your new room is on Via Parigi, number eleven. It is on the second floor, above the café with the drummers and tambourine men. Tell them ciao ciao when you enter the building. Tell them la musica! Move your hands up and down for them, the musicians, for they will be the ones who save you this winter. They will be in the café at three in the morning. Four in the morning. Banging chi chi chi. Singing cha cha cha. The tambourine going ting ting ting. Filling your room with spirits as you try to sleep.
Your new roommates are three women. Georgia works at the gothic bar on weekends and has a Nightmare Before Christmas backpack. Valeria is the beautiful one. She studies chemistry in the daytime and gets sadly drunk on white wine from a glass with a broken stem at night. Lisa is the English one with the fat boyfriend called Umbi. You will all keep to your rooms most of the time, but on occasion you will see each other in the kitchen or the hallway, mistaking each other for phantoms and scaring each other away.
Going outside can be difficult. Wear the Indian boots made of polar bear fur so your feet do not get cold. Wear the pea coat you bought for one hundred Euros at Piero Fontina Designs. Walk anywhere you want: you have nowhere to be. Attend the market off of Piazza Maggiore – the tangerines are good this time of year. The chestnuts. The meats and cheeses are always good. Buy enough for one person. If your hands are cold while peeling the tangerine, buy a pair of gloves.
Go home, now. It is cold outside. Your ears are freezing up like hard candies. Your heart has become an iceberg. Try your hardest not to cry, now, even though you will fall on the slippery sidewalk on your way home. Even though no one will hold your hand. I love you, darling. Remember that. I think you have the warmest heart. I write you emails every day. Go home and check your email. I wrote you an email about what I did in California today. I didn’t do anything special. You are out in the world, experiencing everything. You are learning about the world. You are learning how to say formaggio. You are learning how to wave your hands like birds wings when you talk. How noble of you. How brave.
At home Georgia will be waiting for you with a surprise. She has made pasta for lunch, and has set you a spot at the table. She is wearing thick black eyeliner, but what a heart she has! She has poured you a glass of wine. Valeria is there; it is midday; they have turned the heater on; Lisa is there with Umbi; the pasta is warm and thick and Georgia has chopped zucchini and melanzane for the sauce; the wine in the afternoon makes the world turn red; the yellow lamp hangs over the kitchen table like a sun; the fog on the windows where the indoor warmth meets the cold outside; the warm drops of fog on the windows, the condensation on the windows, the condensation.
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