|
|
 |
|
In Context |
|
written
by peeter / 10.24.2005 |
|
|
| |
Part 1: |
| |
Aesthetic distance is a most definite impossibility for me right now as I sit atop the Aventine. Although I would love to mindlessly gaze in appreciation at the vast panorama before me—one that includes the stubby apse of Santa Sabina, the dome of St. Peter’s, and Il Monumento a Vitorrio Emanuele—my consciousness exerts its striking force that brings the mind into analysis mode.
As usual my foveae are drawn towards the great triumphal monument, with its two chariot-bearing pedestals. I turn my head towards the nearby convent and notice a young person lying on a bench, resting one bouncing leg on the other while pondering the heavenly ocean of blue above. A third of the entirety of Roman skyline is available to his eyes, and yet he is captivated by the sky; something that can be seen from any place on Earth. But I relate to him completely. I wonder which sky he sees—perhaps the one above his family, thousands of miles away, or the one blanketing some other person with whom he longs to spend time. The sky can always be shared.
|
| |
|
| |
|
| |
Part 3: |
| |
Hunger draws me into the central market at the Piazza Testaccio. Not the hunger that we read about or pray for, but the American interpretation of the phenomenon that arises within three hours of each meal. I have been hearing about this market since my time in the serene, level military cemetery with its perfect green carpeting and evenly-arranged gravestones. Cheap shoes…any cheap edible shoes? I walk past all the tables with their piles of shoes. Stiletto hills make me think of the original hill of swine testicles for which this place is named. Utter chaos altogether. Finally inside the marketplace with potable goods, I see a small deli with a greasy glass case half-filled with pizza, its many derivatives, and cookies. I have really no appreciation for the three thousand year history of this market in this moment of anticipation before eating; I only see the pizza that is being weighed, wrapped in too many layers of crinkly white paper, and handed to me. I devour half of it, and even though it is no especially good for Italian pizza, I lie to anyone that asks because I don’t want to get into it with them. My ability to see the space before me for what it represents as an ancient gather place improves as my need for food disappears. I wonder for how long shoes have been sold here. Are the people of Testaccio overtly loyal to their tribe, like most Italians? Do I proudly hold onto my identity as a true Seattleite born on Capital Hill? My hunger is gone, yet I still cannot remove myself from this place to view it objectively. I realize that I am hard-pressed to find a place where true aesthetic distance can be achieved, and that maybe the purpose of a place is to bring one into a rare state of genuine introspection.
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
|
|
