at athe Cloisters: other ways to be buried

I'm glad we walked through the park to the museum instead of waiting for the bus. I'm glad it was snowing and that I had my red hat to cover my hair. The flakes landing like bright silent moths on our coated shoulders. The snow was so thick, there was a blank where the river was, a vague grey hip for the opposite shore. I have to remember to develop those pictures we took in the archway. I tried so hard to love New York.

What a beautiful museum. yes, like Italy. I love the Romanesque, early Renaissance more than other things. Bishops and soldiers buried in the floor of the chapel, thin cordons around them. If you hit the ropes, you'd pitch over them, break your face on the other side of the effigy (preferable to chipping the relic). There weren't any cordons in Santa Croce, and I walked all over the dignified Italian departed. Almost fell flat, tripped by the tip of a marble nose.

It isn't a bad way to be buried. Quiet grave faces, folded hands and pointed toes. I'd have them put me under the stairs in the Newfields house, carve my slab out of wood that matched the floorboards. I'd do that, if anyone would let me: be an old woman sleeping forever in her favorite floor.

Fiesole

Thought about quitting. Not going to.

Fiesole. The high sun and how happy I was that my mother had come to Italy. The bus up into the hills above Florence. I bought our tickets at the kiosk, not knowing whether to admit to her that I usually rode without paying. I found her a seat, and stood behind her, back braced against the window. The ochre walls of the houses lining the switchback road up to the town. The olive leaves, their silver undersides.

They have a small museum there, a collection of strange bits pulled from the knoll behind the building. Etruscan, Roman, unidentifiable. A female bust with a broken nose. A stone comb, the teeth carved to look like antlers. A basket. A breastplate. A black figure oinochoe. In the grass behind the building, Roman ruins lie on Etruscan ruins, another frigidarium, another amphitheater. I climbed into the Etruscan temple while my mother strolled around the exterior walls. It was a temple inside a temple, nested into itself. Midday, and in the quiet air, I heard clearly every sound inside the roofless cella. A quick rustling, the small green lizards that I was frightening, their quick retreats back into their crevices and cracks.

I've always loved the Etruscans, mysterious people with no origins we know of and wonderful funerary practices. On the lids of their sarcophagi, they carve effigies of the interred, always shown living and happy, eating or speaking. Couples are carved together, sometimes sitting up and gesturing to the viewer, sometimes lying down and quite unaware of other people. It's beautiful, it's love in a narrow bed. It's a good way to be buried, I think.

They were onto something, the Etruscans. They wanted to be remembered at their best, their liveliest, their most in love. Even now, their ruins refuse melancholy, populated with the bright whips of basking lizards, my bare knees, curious feet. On the other side of the exterior wall, my mother runs her beautiful hand over the rough old stone.

phone interviews

I just finished my TFA phone interview, and it put me in mind of my first attempt at presenting myself as a candidate for a job from a distance... Last year, when I was in Italy, I had to interview over the phone for an internship at MASS MoCA. The day of the interview, I went up to Fiesole with my mother, a really fun trip that I will probably write about later, maybe tomorrow. Anyway, I got back to my apartment in Florence less than 20 minutes before I was expecting a phone call, and ran around the building until I found a courtyard where my Italian phone seemed able to keep a few bars. I waited, sitting on the curb, hugging my knees, staring at the blank grey face of my cellphone, waiting for it to light up.

The call came in, and I fumbled with the buttons, tried to answer as professionally as possible. I managed a 'Hello?' and the voice on the other end, a girl's voice responded, 'Hello?' She sounded as far away as I felt, muffled and inquiring. We both started talking.
'Is this...'
'Hi, this is...'
'My name is...'
'oh, hi!'
'I'm calling from...'
'whoops'
'can you hear me?'
and then, of course, the phone went dead. I panicked, horrified at the still, dark face of my ridiculously chunky cell phone, the ineptitude of the arcane black characters that populated the useless screen. Another call came in, MASS MoCA trying again. I appreciated the persistance. Again, we could hardly strike a rhythm for the conversation. Our voices, both feminine, both young, seemed mirrors of each other, turning in the same direction, futilely colliding whenever we tried to come too close.

Finally we kind of got it, though the whole conversation was punctuated by 'I'm so sorry, could you repeat the question?' and 'what was that?' at the end of the call, she asked me, ' so how long is your brother visiting?' I was so confused. I don't have a brother. He certainly wasn't visiting me. After a pause, I asked, '... my brother?'
'yeah, your brother. Didn't you guys just get back from Fiesole?'
'Oh! no, that was my mother. my mom. my mom's visiting. I only have two sisters.'
'ooohhhh, I'm so sorry, I must have misheard...'
'no, I'm sorry, I...'
'this phone, it's just...'
'can barely hear...'
'...international calls, you know.'
we laughed, commiserating, and said goodbye. For a while afterwards, I sat in the courtyard, one arm around my tucked-up shins, tapping my chin with the cell phone. I realized: I had absolutely no idea how that interview went.

Don't forget: international calls are hard to make and phone interviews are awkward.
Also don't forget: smile while you're talking and hope for the best.