I'm
packing my goods for the move to my new home across the mountains
where there are no tourist buses. The great clearout. Two thirds of
the piles of papers, photographs, letters, postcards, have to go.
It's why I move every three or four years. It's a physical and psychological
purge. And I'm rumbling through a box of photographs, a pile of Polaroid's.
And there's this bunch from a Conference I went to in Carmel the year
before. It was a Photographic Conference. These are so boring that
the organisers always add little fringe lectures to keep people walking
out and tacking themselves to the bar or from getting stoned on the
beach or both ...which they all do anyway. One in particular was by
a man who could project images onto Polaroid film they said. With
his mind.
You
know the ten in a pack type, which shoot out with a snap and a whiz.
He was asking people in the audience to give him and image to think
about and the number in the pack on which they wanted it. So we had
an Eiffel Tower, a banana, a monkey etc. etc. and every time this
guy would come up with the goods. My mind was racing on this one and
I was trying to suss the trick. Nothing but a magician's trick yes
and maybe he had a few stooges in the audience I was thinking, idly,
as I drifted into the snoozy after-effects of having similarly tacked
myself to a bar and been stoned on the beach or both. And then I was
abruptly wakened by a question directed at me. You doubt me sir, he
said... I guess I do I replied.
An
image and a number then he said. A spider - no! Two spiders, I'd said.
Heaven knows why (grappling for my mind as I was), because for sure
spiders were no part of my life at that time.
Hell, how did I ever forget this?
And
here it is. The Polaroid picture of two spiders but not just any spiders,
as you might imagine. And the odd thing is I hadn't given it a second
thought until now. The portrait shows Ed and Frances. And they are
wearing Hawaiian shirts and they're having a picnic. On the beach.
And
then it struck…
Il
botto
That's
what they call it here. A lightning hit. Everything fizzing in an
instance. A white grenade thud in the very guts of house. It was one
of those storms Tuscany does so well in this high altitude. Hot Africa
pushing up from the south to meet cooler Europe from the north. The
boiler's blown from its moorings on the studio wall. The rain kicks
in a few seconds after the hit; solid lumps of water mixed with larger
pieces of ice. The dimming evening light which was there seconds before
suddenly consumed by an utter blackness inside and out, as I rush
for candles and as the noise on the roof reaches a deafening pitch.
My leaking roof. The rain pouring in from four windows burst open
by a body blow gust. And I run from windows to candles to saucepans
to leaks to anything electrical pulling out leads and moving the stereo,
video, TV and lastly the PC which is covered with spray and I instinctively
grab its lead to pull it out of its socket as a second bolt hits the
house, this one sending me crashing against the wall opposite.
Then it stops. Suddenly. Five minutes of disaster and then a thin
emerald light in the sky above San Gimignano and I'm just sitting
there with my back to the wall as if I'm waiting for something, the
laptop smouldering at my feet. The call of a bird. Bessy and the cats
crawl from under the bed and throughout the house a silence punctuated
by the slow drip into the eight bowls and saucepans and the sound
of running water through the garden and veggie patch.
I run downstairs to check the house fuse trip box but the power is
down from outside. No phone either and my telefonino is out too which
means the tower on the hill has been hit.
I look out from the window and the garden is a mess. The emerging
eerie green light is just enough to see by. The ground is covered
with hailstones and my tomatoes and pepper plants look shredded. And
blood drips onto the windowsill. It's coming from my head somewhere
And I'm standing here in the kitchen, wet through, and I'm still holding
the Polaroid in my hand.
The
Chat Room
U
OK?
Yep
Everything dried out?
Mostly
Your head?
It's healing. Just a few stitches.
Computer OK? Obviously.
Needed a new modem, but it's fast really fast.
Sorry for getting angry on the phone.
That's OK. You've a right to be. Me being nuts and all.
Didn't say that.
But you said I need help.
Sure. We all need help sometime or other.
But me especially now huh?
I reckon. In almost every way.
But dreams are dreams and music is music and what's happening is happening.
So you say.
In this instance I'm saying what I mean and mean what I say.
I don't doubt that.
So what can I tell you that won't make you mad at me?
Why do you worry that I'm mad at you? Just tell it like it is.
The truth you mean?
What else?
Tell me where is fancy bred?
What?
In the heart or in the head?
Is this Shakespeare or something?
Probably.
If you're just gonna get smart on me ...
I'm not getting smart, I'm just saying I can only do two things.
Which are?
OK. 1) Tell you what I perceive is happening. 2). Tell you what I
imagine is happening.
And you reckon you can separate the two?
Difficult maybe.
Impossible I would say.
You could be right.
Oh great! Shall I implode or send you a virus or both. Or neither
and try old-fashioned patience.
Thanks. Either. It's all the same to me.
Hmm! So you're getting mixed up between what you perceive and what
you imagine.
Yes.
Example?
Telepathy.
Where are you taking me on this?
OK, I mean, are we just thoughts? Like wherever we are, whatever we
are doing, is it just as a thought?
Are we the experience or the thought of the experience? Are our
memories real?
Are you talking hypnotism for example?
Hmm funny! But in a sort of way yes.
Photography? Are you talking about that Polaroid?
Yes, that Polaroid or it could be a film when we think we are actually
inside it. The suggestion wants to become the reality. Except that
it isn't, although at the same time it is.
What about stupid rabbits?
Huh? What have rabbits got to do with it?
Or chickens which are even stupider; or humans which are somewhere
in between.
The Milky Way's a pageant.
So it is.
Bet you can't guess what webs are really for?
I
disconnect and call you and I say nothing about these last lines.
I know they are written by Ed or Frances and that you'll get mad if
I say so. You tell me you're flying over next week to help me move.
I suspect you have other motives that I can't afford right now.
I scan the Polaroid to send you.
I send it to Photoshop.
On the bottom of the image on the screen are written the words
'We are very sorry'... Ed and Francis.
I'm
almost finished packing.
Tomorrow I move to my new home across the mountains.
