So now, I’ll start moving this over to my newsletter, I think, and I’ll keep it here too. I decided to start where I did originally: getting the call, I’m going back with Bukowski a bit more in mind…so shorter sections. Coming out of the airport, it starts right away. Just for now. Out the doors, the blue sky the color of my mother’s eyes—joy, my inheritance. I’ll bring that along straight away. Meri, he’ll call me, and I forgot they called me by that name.
Christmas has already begun. The sport. The whole thing is. The second you arrive.
I’m still keeping elements of the houses not fully coming to life…yet.
So this first lunch, I tried sectioning it off. I think it’s more fun this way. Like rounds.
I was overjoyed to see it again, the kitchen, the window that opened from the wall like a door. A curtain of embroidered daisies: Flora. I tended to assess peoples’ characters quickly. Dry, this was her temperature, like wood, her element, but a glass menagerie person, delicate, a flower, a Justice at the stove. I loved people, I always did. It was partially strategic. Not my first time at the rodeo.
“Do you like curtains?”
Franco mocked me.
I hurried over to the door to peek through the daisies.
You’re skinny, I am muscle, no, yes, how was your flight, where have you been? How are you making money? Eat, Maria, eat. AHHHH, Flora rang. What the hell are you doing, goofy guitar-playing man? This guy. Why is she laughing? Carmine never moved his face, also strategic.
Orange and mandarin trees from the garden below met a terracotta patio. Naples is really like this. Boxes of nuts, bowls of fruit, leafy greens exploding out of crates on a white plastic table, I loved the theater, the show of family, each one with their own qualities, also universal. It wasn’t that real to me, a bit provocative, I have to admit.
Taking his position on his bench: the radiator under the window, Franco was assessing my wow attitude already. Didn’t expect that.
“Do you remember?”
Flora tipped from the stove with a stalk of pasta in her hand.
“Si…”
I said with a bright smile, because I did, I did.
“Barbeque,” I said with an Italian accent for Franco…
“Sull’escalier, um, the stairs” leading down to the garden.
“Senti,” Franco honked into the pressing subject at hand.
“IO,” I said with fist, “imparar’ Italian rapid.”
Scratching the top of his head, careful about germs, always, the urologist was wondering what my grand gestures were about but he remembered that I was always like this, even fondly.
“Really?”
He looked at me.
Turning around, here we go, one last game, one more show, what’s the difference? Tear down the set, charge the field, save the smuggling revolutionary. Laughter, my fancy-foot work, what I loved and never had. No one got it. Conversation in Naples required quick footwork.
Do you still do theater?
Carmine with his brows raised said “no.”
“What the hell do you mean no?”
Franco demanded to know.
For Flora, it passed.
To them…who was this?
“Can I help you?”
Franco snapped at me.
Who the hell is this?
“No, no,” Flora said.
I ran over to Carmine, clearing a basket of walnuts.
Franco visibly watched my frenetic, nervous energy.
Flora didn’t have to turn around.
“These are local Maria…”
Franco and Carmine told where the nuts came from at the same time.
“Eat the nuts!” Franco barked. “You don’t eat!”
“Si! IO EAT.”
He pointed to his eye as if I were a baby. It wasn’t what he was seeing on my figure.
“I do sport!”
Flora congratulated me. Franco was concerned. I was triggered but couldn’t be.
“I don’t remember you having curly hair…”
Flora slid in.
They took the feet out from under me.
“Si…”
“No.”
“Si.”
“No.”
“Si!”
I forgot that I forgot.
“Di,” Carmine corrected me.
“Regulare?”
Franco snapped.
What the fuck is this?
“Tweet, tweet,” Franco remembered…making little birds tweet, tweeting, between the two of us.
“Si, it’s regular,” Carmine said.
Oh my God, I forgot that I forgot.
Wow, they remembered me.
I had to fight, you see, in Naples. It’s my hair. NO, no it’s not. I had this! Turning my pointer finger in a large circle. Franco mocked me. This was probably the most “me” thing about me. I forgot that I forgot.
“DIED, Maria…your father? HE DIED? HE DIED?
I wasn’t used to starting my story on this foot. Thrown. Already, they saw me as one of their own.
-
Through the murky waters, I saw the mozzarellas in a bucket, the smooth white bums. Pure, brand new again. We don’t have special packaging here. I was gleeful. I was skinny. The LASER BEAMS he made them coming from my eyes should be directed toward the FOOD. Good, food, it’s good, he insisted.
Over her shoulder, Flora smiled with flirtatious eyebrows.
“I remember,” she began.
“You always loved bufala…”
“Si? Really?”
Franco collapsed a little, looking at Flora.
“Are you trying to be a comedian Maria?”
Flora tried to hold it.
“She has a quality though doesn’t she Flora?”
“Si, si,” she said.
I laughed.
“A little magical, no?”
“What?”
Franco bent over, broke down the word, gave me sparkly fingers.
“QUALITA,”
Palm open, Franco was confused.
I never ate first. I couldn’t do that.
They paused.
“Avanti comminciar.” Ahead to start, sticking my thumb into before.
Franco Franzese made his way to the large ceramic bowl with kaki and clementines with feeling. He let me have it low—Maria, eat. He wasn’t eating. Everyone made fun of his “dieta” which always remained a theory. “Non,” I was final. Franco was about to begin his interrogation into the case of me with a quick glance at the cheese.
Carmine cut into his mozzarella with precision, a formidable bite, and broke a bit of bread.
I was cracking up. They thought I was joking. No, it was their reaction.
“La politesse,” it was French.
Then, I said police, short-circuiting, cracking up, “the language,” I began, loving speaking like this. I approached foreign languages almost like a clown act…free, bold, so excited!
Creamy, touch of stank, a delight, I took a bite…my eyes closed.
“FRESHK,” I said.
“MARIA YOU’RE SOUNDING NEAPOLITAN.”
Carmine ate, “she’s refusing to speak Italian.”
“Very good,” brav.
“Fa freddo,” Franco shivered.
“Yes,” Flora said with a warm smile.
“Good, Maria?”
“It’s not…(that)…cold,” I teased him.
“Oh?”
The things you remember.
I opened my fingers, trying to find a word better than good.
“Delici…”
They jumped in, pasta releasing steam under Flora’s stirring, the cockles salty on the nose.
-
“Piano piane, Maria, piano piane,” he said.
I laughed, I sucked a cockle, a tender, warm, salty babe.
“Piano, piane?”
“Pia-no, pia-no, Maria,” Franco Franzese rocked on his heels, “piano, piane.”
As if I were beginning a song “softly, soft” in the Neapolitan, he assured me, sincerely, that it would unfold, in other words, in time. Nothing about Naples was piano piane.
YOU — WANT? SAPER?
“I poof,” I said.
“Yes,” Franco pointed.
“Exactly, just like this.”
“Poof,” he looked at Flora like I had something, something of value.
“What is,” I made the poof. Flora made “ehh” sounds.
“Si si they GOT THE PICTURE.”
I pinched my fingers at them and did not have the word for word.
“Maria,” Franco frowned. “What about the lentils?”
Slippery pasta between my lips, I demonstrated my chewing mouth!
“Brav,” Franco enjoyed my fight. At least. They all did. Si, si, good, normale, etc.
Carmine wanted me to eat the lentils as well.
“SCUSA MARIA,” Franco blurted.
Flora came with more cockles.
No, what, who, no, ONLY FISH?
“I…”
I snapped at Carmine with his owl eyes.
“When you don’t have…”
I could do that.
“I didn’t have your number…”
I made a phone.
“Couldn’t communicar.”
-
They figured, sorry to hear it, about my father.
I was defensive, smiling, getting…
“Maria,” Franco said as if I were a kid, “he was older…”
“I KNOW.”
They didn’t read me correctly. Still didn’t.
“Of what?”
Flora broke her gluten-free bread and throwing chunks into her lentils.
“ALZHEIMERS…?”
“ALZHEIMER?”
“Is it…?”
“ALZHEIMER?”
“Si, si the SAME.”
“THE SAME. THE SAME.”
Franco ripped the ending of “eguale” right off.
A whole fish hit the table.
“Bello!”
“MARIA, have you SEEN a FISH?!”
Flora sat down to de-bone it elegantly.
“When,” Franco pressed, “WHEN did he get Alzheimer?”
“When I was ten…”
They didn’t believe me.
I made a slow-motion explosion.
“This was my life…”
“Explosion? Maria?”
Franco pressed.
“Everything has exploded?”
“Tutto boom.”
I was sorry.
“Carmine,” Franco did not move his face.
“Why is she using this word?”
-
After dessert, fruits, and coffee, we headed for the suitcase in a quartet. Carmine took the lead.
After this, right now, I hear Carmine play, and he’s a really talented musician. We have a little duet and you find out he’s at risk…medical school textbooks. And I don’t sing anymore, for real? He pursued this because of me. What?
The degree to which I don’t remember who I am…is pretty clear.
I guess I charged in for Carmine…
Race car driving.
I arrived in a family conflict over the band and — me not singing anymore? The second I got there. That was over the edge. For them. Me not singing anymore is LUNACY. FORGET HIM, GOOFY. “Franco…” Franco sort of apologized but cracks himself up too much.
I think that’s right. They were fun…
Normally, I go meet the band in this old order…what does it mean to stay together? Since that band is a real crew, American Graffiti, one last night, type of thing. But maybe too soon.
I might go into me being welcomed back in song to keep up my music thread…coming to discover just what this is…a party, a feast. I found myself at a feast. I had a song, I was home. My Song for Maria. Maybe I can leave it there…just that section. Vico as siren. I couldn’t believe it.
Cheers!
A bar rises on its feet— soccer, I’m meeting this band…keep the thread going…
I never anticipated any of this…the lead singer…
”I know they’re happy that you’re back…”
What?
“You’re a cousin aren’t you?”
Breaking it up to introduce the party of it a bit more…
I’m in this ritual, cheerleaders with pom poms, men juggling on stilts. Shit.
Not the Eve of the Immaculate Conception. That’s like one week in.
Just because of how complex it is…and maybe this is just me. Post Office helped. How would he handle something like this? My Song for Maria and My Way happen at the same time, for example. But it might be better story wise, more satisfying for MY WAY to come further into the story…meaning, the feast where the basic facts come out…is it’s own thing.
Probably after this.
FRANCO IS ON MY CASE.
THERE IS A MAN!
Then, sure, she takes me into her car… I’m trying to explain I was a problem. I told her to get out of my way. And then I get My Way. I mean in reality they sang that first, not getting it, and then hit me with doubt right away. So I’ll keep feeling into it…where to introduce Angela…since everyone has a role…that’s the thing about a family, too, depending. She was beauty. It’s not to say Flora isn’t but Angela saw the beauty in me…sees my mother as one…she says it…but at least, I know that the family that took me out of my house when I was four…is up until the feast of santa lucia…more of less. Where we switch. So, one story didn’t end before moving onto another. Normally, I would say, I should put all stuff about my parents later, but Franco undercuts me. DRINK? My mother.
Maybe in the end, I can make that work, it was part of the confusion of it, which I think you’ll get. BACK TO THE AUNT. Why things don’t land. Even for me. I don’t go off into a panic anymore, since that’s what started to happen as it landed. Oh. I did say that to them, I did try to tell them, but they didn’t make these connections, they didn’t believe me, they took it in their own direction. None of this really connects yet.
“Fa la discipline.” I’m trying to tell them, about my father forgetting something. Angela kept saying “fa la discipline,” because “you must do the discipline…” not me. But it just doesn’t work. Chaos, I suppose my story found a home, hilarious. Joy. It’s a good note even if you know that it came from a real place. I like me running through the crowd, in a state of play too…there’s something nice about a female clown like that, also very Italian. I’m not a Joker, she is, but you’ll get flashes, you could, though I’m sorry, I probably would have self destructed in a way over…that was a very extreme person. But some of that was tortured, sure. They might not get that. Besides, me doing this in a foreign language doesn’t occur to them, me too, the challenge of it, my positive mask…I gotta be positive…could confuse me; I couldn’t say no, again, can’t hurt me. I don’t have to do this. Also the liar thing. People thinking they know. This is slightly off topic but boundaries, no, I don’t have to get wrapped up. But you’ll see…speak to your mother, speak to your mother — push the button, push the button. Which is great.
They didn’t find someone physical…strange so they don’t always know I’m not being totally serious, and it’s hilarious. Too many cookies. I just got up. Off the floor. So much fun.
“SFFER LAR…” I can’t pronounce wake up.
I can break all this up. It’s how I do that. This is also in retrospect.
I have so much of it already…if not all of it.
I’m just going to continue along now that I have a better feel for the voice which is helping me with the story of it. It’s just been a challenge…it’s all really good, fun, and that’s what I wanted. I wanted you to really enjoy this ride…delicious is the word. That’s my word, my goal.
I should be further along soon.
Santa Lucia (14) to Christmas Eve morning. That’s the tough stretch. Ignazo comes. Emilio comes. Gennaro and co. come…it’s family two. we’re getting closer. Naples too. That’s why I wanted to introduce Vico and Angela sooner — to have that element of nature…beginning to blossom and to ask him about my name…what my name is in Neapolitan. And then, I guess after this…it can begin to really open up. The farm. There are two. One is more grand…but Vico’s farm is great, capers and salt — very Christmas in Naples. Right now, what I last did, after Santa Lucia I moved my story, spread it out a bit more evenly…
They started singing to me the second. The second I returned. Normally I put it On the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, conceived in a way…nonsexually. But then I guess I don’t need everything to be exactly on the date. We get it maybe. It can just keep going. That’s what I led with — learn the language, learn. And then — music.
I went out of order. But this is just my thought process right now.
At least, I can feel it working. And the food of it…I feel like I can tackle better. Bufala, good place to start. A couple nuts. A whole fish. You see, you think, oh dessert, no — mains.
I inserted an actor, for example, last night, when “the same questions…” start coming at the gambling for children round early in…how one might react…not me. I was not affected. More like laughter, that one. I’m not affected. More like that. And you — don’t not get affected by this story. It’s more clown. Maybe you don’t typically see a woman clown who is physically “tough” with these types of defenses. Which I think is great. And over time, I think now, in terms of the relief I feel, truly, physically, it’s not the same. A strong mask. Who becomes bolder because she doesn’t speak the language. Not shier. I’m funny, want to laugh, not afraid of looking or sounding stupid…that’s an edge. Why do people think I’m being serious?
I’m sort of the opposite of that. Not doing that anymore. I never liked that to begin with. But I had a hard time with smarts.
Maybe, I can redirect the joy, instead of running into Naples free after Franco Franzese hits me with “father” arms crossed concern on the radiator after the facts come out…I can jump in, I wanted to learn. I didn’t want this. But I don’t know…I’m just moving parts in my head.
I’m going to bed. Thanks for reading. It’s coming together. That’s a satisfying feeling. I wish I could find a couple of more references. I’ll fix the super long sentences, in that, I found a book that did it, so I’m fine, but I have to work on that. It’s really like that though. And if the dialogue lends itself to its own kind of flow, that’s the idea.