Valle dell’Aniene

Found along Via Nomentana

One of the things I love about Rome, or maybe just Italy as a whole, is it’s depth, spatially. I love how you can walk by an archway and as you pass it by, it seems for a second that you caught a glimpse of another world. Behind the archway there is an open courtyard, behind which stands another archway, then a statue, then a garden. Colorful and still, the sun grazes the archway, uninterrupted by an occasional passersby’s shadow.

Found along Via Lorenzo il Magnifico

I love the graffitied walls behind which trees blossom with spring’s orange flowers. The peachy buildings contrasting against an everlasting blue. Even when you look up, behind these branches the sky is all you can see, a depth reaching across millenniums. A playground for the sizzling life below, the perfumes from open kitchen windows, as well as the honking of motorbikes, buzzing around the pedestrians like bees. Seagulls that beckon in the morning as a tribute to the day.

Valle dell’Aniene

And every once in a while you may find an oasis, a forest with it’s own noises and scents. It’s own paths, and hidden treasures, and colors.

A crime to kiss

 It was a crime to kiss, they said
But when we met our feelings only seemed to be 
missed more
Pouring through cracks they had broken
When we were shadows before
Elongated by the growing sun
We never seemed to touch
For one
reason or another

Small excerpt from a larger poem

I am the sun

I am the sun,

And I walk with a sweetness in my soul

That catches in water pools

Or on red cheeks

And I smile

As the day ends 

I turn buildings to gold

My uncommonly beautiful silhouette

across the wall 

They watch me stand with a calmness of breath,

I am lost in brilliance, sometimes

At the bottom of pits and prying through cracks in doors

Conformed by the shapes that surround me,

Yet I’m curious.

The people have been waiting for me.

The way I bounce off of blue waves in rainbows

Playing between eyes of lovers,

Descending slowly to pink clouds, 

And losing color,


I am the sun,

Bringing an easiness in the mornings

Opening leaves to illuminate their inner workings

A little magic brushed upon

And carried by the passersby

Into the new sunlight.

Waiting for things to feel

Week 5 in Quarantine

I can't even cry because the emotions would be too heavy to carry
and the days between white walls have washed emotion away
As I wait for the next meal,
a blankness blankets the day
As I heal from every interaction
it feels like a ripped off band-aid
As I yearn for solitude

And this is the only place I can be completely real
Instead of picking through unharvested thoughts
thinking of pasts, futures, missing the now
and still,
I'm waiting for things to feel.

No longer the last day of quarantine

So much of me is gone that I almost forgot I'm here
Here in Rome, housebound and not home
Clutching my cell phone. alone
Days spent dreaming of others, so
I forget to live my own

I forgot how much I had dreamed of this one.
One day, I said, today would come.
And it's here but not lived.
And I don't know how many hours I've spent in this room
But I'm dying to move on and live the days soon.

Today, April 3rd was (until this past Wednesday) the tentative last day of quarantine. They’ve extended the date a week, and hopefully after that will slowly begin taking off restrictions.

Week 4 in Quarantine

The absence of a self, of color. Every day it feels like I have less to show for who I am.  My room is tidy, because I live in a house that is not my own. I have no decorations on the walls that define me.  I used to wear sweatpants everyday, but now I’m dressing up, honing in on a single aspect of my identity.  I’m loosing my words, even. I live with a family that speaks Italian and I’m the English native who is meant to speak English with the kids.  I can speak Italian, but I’m the English native of course, who is speaking to the air; because by the time I finish speaking my words go in through one ear and out through the other.  

Understandably. We’re antsy, I’m spending more time alone because the kids don’t want to do any of the activities I offer, and now I don’t know what my role is. “The English Au Pair” the English Something-or-other who lives here. I can’t write because I’m sick of it. I really appreciate the people that call me, because it’s a cure, someone who will hear, and it’s unfair. I want to be home too.