A 7-minute read.
A stone ceiling curving to a point, I stood in the Sistine Chapel every summer for four years. A man with huge, muscular legs twisting back and down to look up, I was propelled forward not knowing why I ended up in this room covered in dynamic forms of paint. Architecture became a drama. An illusion could be true and beautiful and still incomprehensible to me. What did all this mean? A grand spiritual battle? I felt emotion or was just affected? Drama. It gripped me — the facial expressions, the structure of the human body twisting with rippling bright cloaks even God with his arms outstretched in purple, pointing on a cloud.
Through a body of tourists — I remembered a blue deeper than the sky rising in a gigantesque composition of figures on clouds, up clouds, in all directions reaching for Jesus about to cast his hand down. The Last Judgment. Touches of green, vermillion, and bright blue; for his mother, flooded my senses all over again. The last work that Michelangelo completed in this room, my eyes on his self-portrait, a loose hanging piece of skin.
The years with my father locked away, I gave a monologue in my head full of truth about the decisions I made back then about to take the same hard turn into the undercover investigations I launched after these four years…still a mystery to me, like how I ended up here.
I understood what the Protestant Reformation was. The situation tore Michelangelo up inside.
I shivered at this portrait as a kid.
I heard Death’s voice passing behind me. I didn’t capture what he said, not expecting him to pop up.
“What?”
“It resonates with a clear feeling, doesn’t it?”
“Despair.”
I looked at him.
“I cannot separate the church from my family. It was my means of seeking justice and meaning.”
“Yes,” he pointed to some silly details.
“Again, this is a mind game…”
“No,” I said.
“This was a matter of faith…my life was a miracle, people with angel names, ok, came in and helped me. If it wasn’t for spirit, I wouldn’t be…”
“You are spirit embodied. I know that your devotion was sincere and his wasn’t and the Catholic Church was at the root of your parents’ maladies. Bang your head against the wall, destroy this room with your bare hands…”
Death paused. He had a way of bringing space to a point. With the architecture, the very structure of my experience, forget my real life versus fiction, the lies versus the truth, the masterpieces I could create from this material. It was energy, I had the power to transform it.
“How old are you?”
He continued.
“What?”
My body was fluid in form, iridescent like the scales of a fish. These questions made me bleed through space and time. Memories, it didn’t matter. Real pasts, rewritten pasts, and probable futures; hopes, dreams, hiding places, Death was there regardless.
Coming out of these four years, I couldn’t find myself. I was tricky even “clever” but Death pinned her here. I saw myself at that age for the first time. I gasped, realizing it. There I am. He felt this was a good “summary point” for these four years, my undercover investigations.
“You’re a child.”
“I know that,” I said.
“No, you don’t.”
“You didn’t know you were four,” he held up four, five fingers.
I didn’t know how old I was when I started living in this other house or when I came back exactly. Memories resurfaced. No one ever asked me these questions. I never asked myself. You can’t lie to Death. That was the idea. They shook the narrative I had — I couldn’t handle them at first, my body beginning to awaken, feel, defend even. “I am not a liar…”
You see, I heard myself for the first time.
“No,” I said. “I always did. I knew I was a child.”
“You always loved being right…”
“It can get addictive, like anything else, I could tell you stories…”
Death said it in such a way, kind, “so many, before these walls were even here.”
He glanced at the composition.
“Why do people hold onto the things that they do. Now that’s an interesting question…”
“I keep on coming back here.”
“Yes, you can barely recall now can you Céline Dion…I can see that.”
Windows down, Carmine in the driver’s seat, I had tried to get funny with this reference to Dion previously, to make it brief. Death made me laugh, patient. Someone who was more fluid in their understanding of things wasn’t a problem to him, not wrong.
“Like I said,” he said, “mind games, it is to be expected.”
“Well,” he said.
“Let’s take a look around; ah, did I detect a hesitation?”
“I kindly show you a way through your heart and you cannot move away from that spot, a real unknown. You’ll hold onto illusions — exquisitely rendered — of a damned world in which you are unsubstantiated. Do you want to live in a world of condemned people or redeemed people? It’s a question for you, first.”
As a kid, this talk moved me. As an adult, he stunned me. It was true, the two bodies.
He treated me, as a kid, first with respect, you see, so I decided to leave.
“I am just a door,” Death said.
“Your life flashes before your eyes, well, what does that mean?”
Couldn’t change that he exists but from here and there…
“Every story ever told.”
“Across an expanse, you could find a point,” Death pointed.
Death and I faced a long hall next to the Mona Lisa. Flashing lights out the corner of my eye, a glob of tourists held up their cameras. “They can’t see the painting!” I cried. I was a funny kid. I hated pictures, I hated pictures. The age of the image! This spot became significant for me as an adult though. I came here and meditated on a feeling; eternity, one of my favorite feelings. It came from “time bends…” that feeling that extraordinary afternoon…
My father jolted to check if I was still there in a powder blue ensemble and a white visor clipped to his pants. It made me jump then and now. I dismissed him. He rolled his eyes in front of a Caravaggio — Judith cutting off a man’s head. I was fine. “It’s amazing what Da Vinci did, no?” Death said. “It didn’t matter what he did…”
“What do you mean?”
“The first line of his notebooks was I want to create miracles not paintings and flying machines. And look what he did. Miracles, I want to create miracles.” In casting his hand down down down a long corridor, I became aware of how diffused my focus was. It wasn’t the first time I heard that I had a focus problem but I had a vivid imagination, a tool in coming to see that. Death existed in fiction and nonfiction so someone with tensions here — not a problem, there regardless, the ultimate guide, Death. Every Man has one, many, in the literal and literary, possible too — you never know. A mystery Death, strictly present with fierce eyes — very real. So many stories, so many ways to craft energy, lots to “zip up,” in Death’s opinion.
Death found me in so many pieces scattered across time and space and started leading me home.
“As a psychologist called it,” I projected a wall of incoherence not as extreme as my mother but I was fundamentally confused as to who my family even was. What about your real parent? This one.
All the time I spent with my father moving through these museum halls, I could barely recall. I would sometimes pause at some of the thoughts I had unable to sensationally handle them. The liar thing now barely a thing. There wasn’t an adult back there for me, not really. I don’t know why…
A character from my life entered the room to defend the old story…just one…so flimsy, a distant memory once so powerful I would have to stop. I can’t help that life was miracle itself, no? Don’t we say that? Neurology, even me, I guess.
I had done a good job of keeping my real parent, that was my father, it was Death’s point, hidden; I had no idea what I was doing. Even the question—where was my father?—my Neapolitan family continued to ask it. I didn’t know. I started thinking about that…here.
I didn’t enjoy the feeling that I had given my power away as if others knew me better than I did. Do you know how many times I heard phrases like “you’re outta your mind,” or “you’re crazy,” even if they were coming from a place of love or humor? I couldn’t believe I played into it, that a closet of “glamorous” clothes became my sole possessions in a way.
My present surroundings—the Chelsea Hotel—became a working metaphor for my fundamental idea-set, what I believed. “Your life is your idea…” Death thought about it. A friend wondered how I would ever be able to top this. No working plumbing, falling apart, but grand even exquisite. That too. A life, to Death, so letting go…Death found that appealing, an idea full of feeling. I didn’t know why I chose a worldly life yet it stirred me, couldn’t really present myself in the world.
“Your whole life flashes before your eyes…what does that mean?”
I thought about it. What did I want? To feel, who did I want to see even? Looking back on all this.
-
An early scene I wrote for The Oldest Storyteller. Now, not so sure what this is becoming even language-wise but I cleaned it up to quickly share it. I’ll probably spend more time in the Sistine Chapel. Dynamic forms of paint, ideas ideas ideas. I’m going to have to really work on it; that was a particular journey that could take different directions now. I might just resonate as that character alone but again, that’s what I’m doing…in dialoguing with this child, no? It’s connecting to myself, coming into myself, and re-membering…it’s a journey out of repression and more of an awakening journey…for the adult at least. A healing voyage. At least the initial idea.
Wisdom, connection, like I came from a background.
I’m in a very different place now so sometimes I have to remind myself what a journey that was…
In some ways, many, really, I put myself together. Almost drew these parts of myself out and went through this and grew up…this was about my parents, un-doing a lot that I had learned through this, too. This became a way to even dramatize that inner child work. Create a story around the conversations I had with these pieces of me. In some cultures, Death is seen as a real guide, character, but in the West, in the US, this subject in particular seemed maybe in need of a reframe, some healing, something. Even how we approach the divine, power, the unknown….
Death is across. It exists regardless of what you believe in. I laughed sort of thinking about God, even, going — send in Death. Please. The Oldest Storyteller. Talk to these people.
The idea is — life is about your fulfillment. Value fulfillment. It’s a gift. Why Death would be scary…thinking about humans…that “Death” is even out to get you. Has no control over that part. Why the divine or God would even hold some of the perspectives that humans have…doesn’t make sense. Power, to Death. What a higher perspective is.
Death is the oldest storyteller — that’s a true idea. “True,” Death is a symbol of honesty, in that, you can’t lie to Death. And stories are so human. It’s the most human thing, right? Meaning, even. In a word of meaninglessness, I don’t know about that, but we’re in a crisis of disconnection or so I’ve heard. It’s fine on a personal level if you believe there’s nothing or it doesn’t mean anything but Totalitarian regimes rise around this fundamental human need, desire, so it’s all about meaning. Meaning-making. A life amounts to something, there’s value, we’re getting something out of it.
Every story ever told — so what’s not possible? Death has even seen miracles, right? Seen worlds end, brutally, really, terrible. Seen amazing feats too. Stories…could tell you stories…across human history…that wisdom really moved me at a time when I didn’t know what my story was or I struggled with it and with this culture, the way my terrible time was handled, how people treated me, also. Like, will I discover that those lies were not lies…you know? Just based on what I went through. I just thought, well, I’m the friend that you want in that scenario, any. Really. I suppose I can critique the system since someone coming in with the types of stories I was telling…your job is to inquire, evaluate. There’s no body in this field which is utterly bizarre to me.
That aside, people have all sorts of ideas about what we’re doing which confuses me sometimes— past lives, karma, parallel realities, times, dimensions, all sorts of things. I don’t have a problem with any of it but energy is a most true, basic thing “as far as I can tell.” Another Oldest Storyteller line. It’s more like that. “As far as I can tell…” Not to get too high-concept but my mysterious experiences fascinated me — what that is. Like, if i’m picking up on a real presence in my hotel room in Matera, and that was real….what’s death?
We believe that energy cannot be destroyed. Even taking my confusion over my life, the degree to which I had to work that out, questioned what happened to me, couldn’t feel, let go, etc., “sticky” moments, emotions, feelings, is there something to say — remember it’s energy so “alive or dead” might not be the most accurate frame — about getting stuck, energy attached, something happened, even. Yes, spirit, that too. I understand people believe in spirits and all that — Death — in my pink room so vivid, every moment eternal though very short. That’s presence. “There isn’t anything without spirit in it.” That seems true. I stay more on the side of energy. I can’t speak to the difference between spirit and energy — these concepts. Chemistry is a bit spiritual to me, the building blocks of life.
All time is present. That also seems to be true on some level. Based on my time-bending experience as well.
That character — is eternally present. I think. So I liked — again, the perspective, according to some is — your whole life flashes before your eyes. What does that mean? That’s a Death question. I just reframed everything. I’m going to say luckily, you know what I mean? What came before a couple of years ago might not really be in that flash? That conceptually interested me, if not moved me, in how I opened…I went through openings…memories resurfaced, moments seem to have layers of meaning too, they can change, especially when you start to heal or become aware of where your choices came from.
I went through a particular thing, and me as a child in this house…all alone…coming to understand that he was sick in that body…that was hard, took time. I like their eyes between the shadows of my pink blinds.
I’ll continue to update it the scene above but that’s the beginning of that leg of the journey. Me at that age coming out of these four years, and it’s true, I could not locate myself, sure, my investigation into the Catholic Church — really, really sticky — but this was more of an invitation to open up my house, basically. Hanging onto the loose hanging piece of skin, great, right? Why do people hang onto what they do…it’s true…again, in many cultures, Death as a dark or evil thing…isn’t the case. There’s a door, in a sense, and there’s a way out through the heart — good.
Now, at different points in time, I said he was sick, got that information, even in Christmas in Naples, but it didn’t connect overall. I said a lot of things that didn’t. Now, I might not have all the details or can totally say what I ended up going through but I’m clear, sensical, and it’s not as if I wasn’t great or whatever but I’m not operating like I used to even if I’ve gone through an adjustment period. Basically.
I don’t know how high-concept this will end up being, if this character will end up having a series, I don’t know. It’s amazing what reality is, no? What we believe, etc., for real. Belief is real. That’s the thing, too. For now, it’s a return to childhood, a psychological journey that’s more about healing, coming out of repression, and connecting with what’s possible from here. That story also supported me. I could show up for myself since most of the people in my life didn’t understand, that took me some time. I think I felt for other people too…Hard to have had — in the palace in Fes, just extraordinary where home becomes a cosmos, a higher perspective is also at eye-level — close relationships, a couple, end though I get a bit more of the game of life in that rupture doesn’t necessarily have to be the result…besides, not to focus so much on that, to touch upon it, I feel so much better overall. I’m not exactly where I’d like to be but it’s an exciting new chapter in my life that I worked very hard to arrive at.
I’m not done with my first book yet but it’s happening.
“Your life is supposed to inspire you,” moving lines came from that idea — not what you’d expect but then what would you expect? Corruption, it’s true, it’s a deep idea. About the unknown too. I found that character powerful for its incorruptibility, thinking about “Man, human, people, power.” Nice way to flip it, maybe, a lesson to impart. Which I really like. Heart. Death’s not after you. Maybe Death reframing some of the concepts we have around the divine especially as it relates to power would resonate because it exists regardless of what you believe in, you see, even what one might choose to focus on…what justice is…interesting, I thought the symbol for justice would be a child because we are fundamentally innocent, thought-provoking. That’s all just thinking about the wisdom of that character because “justice” would probably be in his domain. Not a judge, Death. Every story ever told is rather large and deep.
It’s late here. I put my sheets into the dryer so hopefully, they’re done. I sent out a short today, a pitch, and I almost completed a short essay for a publication. I’ll finish that tomorrow. Wish me luck. I don’t think that’s — that’s a lot. I started a little late and didn’t work on the book today but I’ll get faster, better at stopping over here, moving on. I don’t know, I’m not sending “the top things…” but I’ll figure this part out. I just want to get my book done, get stuff published. I’m hoping that this next year will be one where things start happening….agent, book done…
Thanks for reading.