A Roman taxi ride is a little like being in a cocktail shaker; you are not only jostled up and down but also from side to side. Wear the seat belt.
Your teeth can rattle right out of your head on a bus ride in Rome. The streets are old, and made of multiple materials and levels. It's worse in the back of the bus.
You can hear the faint vibrations of objects inside your apartment, timed with the rumbling of big vehicles going by, three floors down. I am constantly aware of the outside.
And apartment dweller can feel the movements of people ascending and descending the stairs of the building. I envy the fleet-footed.
The massive, heavy front door to the street, opening and slamming closed, reverberates through the walls and floors. Closure is good, though.
Living with a heavy-footed person means that I know he's up and about, even if I don't know where, in our living space. There is comfort in this - unless I'm trying to sleep.
The rickety elevator shakes a little, every time you step into it. We trust it anyway.
Yesterday, I learned that I slept through earthen tremors.
Yesterday, I learned that I have to tell people that I'm o.k. when I'm o.k. (Otherwise, I forget)
Yesterday, I was reminded that natural disasters elicit the same reactions from all of us, regardless of how we express them: grief over loss, shock at swiftness, wishing for warning, blame for senseless victimhood, avowals to make things right and whole somehow, because they actually cannot be made right and whole - ever.
I have seen the footage, even when I could not understand the words.
All the right people have paid the televised visits to survey damage, make the appropriately vague and probably heartfelt statements, and shake the hands of the local officials.
And right now, in a darkness that is so dark most of us cannot imagine doing this, there are the ones who continue to search. They call for silence so that the silence can be broken by a call, if a voice is left. So here is some space for that.
I have nothing profound to say. But I had to say something:
I'm extra glad that today, I could wear a seat belt, ride on a bus, listen to the sounds of the populated world outside my door and my building, feel comfort in closure, sleep in a comfortable bed, and trust an elevator.
I did all of those things today. And I don't know if I'll get to do them tomorrow.
I never did know, but I thought that I did.
We're grateful for your queries, worries and calls.
We're o.k.
Your teeth can rattle right out of your head on a bus ride in Rome. The streets are old, and made of multiple materials and levels. It's worse in the back of the bus.
You can hear the faint vibrations of objects inside your apartment, timed with the rumbling of big vehicles going by, three floors down. I am constantly aware of the outside.
And apartment dweller can feel the movements of people ascending and descending the stairs of the building. I envy the fleet-footed.
The massive, heavy front door to the street, opening and slamming closed, reverberates through the walls and floors. Closure is good, though.
Living with a heavy-footed person means that I know he's up and about, even if I don't know where, in our living space. There is comfort in this - unless I'm trying to sleep.
The rickety elevator shakes a little, every time you step into it. We trust it anyway.
Yesterday, I learned that I slept through earthen tremors.
Yesterday, I learned that I have to tell people that I'm o.k. when I'm o.k. (Otherwise, I forget)
Yesterday, I was reminded that natural disasters elicit the same reactions from all of us, regardless of how we express them: grief over loss, shock at swiftness, wishing for warning, blame for senseless victimhood, avowals to make things right and whole somehow, because they actually cannot be made right and whole - ever.
I have seen the footage, even when I could not understand the words.
All the right people have paid the televised visits to survey damage, make the appropriately vague and probably heartfelt statements, and shake the hands of the local officials.
And right now, in a darkness that is so dark most of us cannot imagine doing this, there are the ones who continue to search. They call for silence so that the silence can be broken by a call, if a voice is left. So here is some space for that.
I have nothing profound to say. But I had to say something:
I'm extra glad that today, I could wear a seat belt, ride on a bus, listen to the sounds of the populated world outside my door and my building, feel comfort in closure, sleep in a comfortable bed, and trust an elevator.
I did all of those things today. And I don't know if I'll get to do them tomorrow.
I never did know, but I thought that I did.
We're grateful for your queries, worries and calls.
We're o.k.
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