I Know This Much Is True

 Finished the mini-series yesterday. Took eight months to watch six episodes because they are so heavy and so sad, but not so much I didn't want to find out what all happened. What a tightrope walk, to know when it was a good idea to engage. At times watching this man's pain gave me a lift of gratitude. Compared to his well of anger and sadness, I suddenly floated. Other times I was right down there with him, a child smashing things just because, or insisting on painting a house despite swollen wounds. "Look how terrible the world is," the images told me. "You thought things were looking up, but not for Mark Ruffalo."

By the end, when there has been even more trauma, it is still the end of a piece of art. And so there is brighter light and lighter sound and some movement toward something better. But then I wonder how Mark Ruffalo really did it. Was it somehow a let go of grief? Was it a let go in general? Is this just how it always is? You simply decide. I will think about this story for a long time.

Italy: Part Two

Uffizzi was probably a couple of the worst hours of my life. Menstural cramps hit hard and I was like "Venus? That's cool, but I think I might scream and/or rip out my own womb and fling it onto this Michaelangelo real quick." I felt bad for hustling Bisque through, but later we discovered he doesn't enjoy lingering in galleries anyway. Actually, the whole ovary explosion was probably a benefit for him as I would usually have been diddling around the plaques and leaving him bored at the end of every hall.

I spent most of the day crying or trying not to cry because I was emotional about basically everything from the street violinist playing Cats (interestingly enough I was not moved by "Memory" but more enraged that people internationally still love Cats when it's really just fine.) to extreme sadness that we had little slabs of only mediocre pizza for dinner and never took a bus anywhere and I saw a hurt pigeon outside the Museum of Modern Art and why didn't Bisque hold my hand through that crowded sidewalk?

David was impressive, sure. We saw some neat crypts. Churches that are so incredible you start to walk into rooms with only one phenomenal piece of stained glass and think, "Pfft. People are supposed to pray in this dungbox?"

Florence was good to me in that it stayed cloudy while we walked everywhere and I had this surprise fantastic Parmesan gnocchi for lunch. But, sigh, you can take the girl out of the Midwestern May, but you can't take a Midwestern May out of the girl. Mainly I was ready for Friday to end.

Luckily it did. And when I awoke our breakfast in bed of coffee and croissant included a small berry muffin. We had one item on our itinerary before the train. We climbed the Duomo. The sun burst in through the patches of concrete in the steep steps. The top was real Italy like you see in books. I felt my smile pump back into my face.

It was a joyful day of transit thanks to Bisque's navigational skills and the vending machine milk bars.

I listened to Light in the Piatzza while he slept. We arrived in Cinque Terre, literally breathtaking. Welcome to Leg Three.