~

something about the day, whiteness, shadows
on the snow, frozen fingers scraping ice, country
roads that twist, old fence posts holding up the sky,
falling keys and squeaking floor boards, brushes
with bent bristles, blackandwhite photos piled near
fresh paints, an old green palette, the colour
in T's comments about not going out, his Scotland,
and later, sliding sideways downhill in the dark,
the glare, oncoming lights, Puccini playing on the radio,
near misses in slow motion like so many other things
about this year, thinking time is ticking down
and chosing paths that always derail, beating hearts,
leading nowhere, until C sends this tonight, his
translations, that his timing matters in a way
that he will never know, how people intersect
(or don't) in utterly unexplainable ways,
like D's Commedia
bridging centuries with no predicting it
and all these words, these thoughts,
written here, to no one in the night
but layered like a prayer.

"Apparve vestita di nobilissimo colore,
umile e onesto, sanguigno, cinta e orn!
ata a la guisa che a la sua giovanissima
etade si convenia. In quello punto dico
veracemente che lo spirito de la vita,
lo quale dimora ne la secretissima camera
de lo cuore, comincio a tremare si fortemente,
che apparia ne li menimi polsi orribilmente..."

"She [Beatrice as spirit of Love] appeared to me
clothed in noblest hues, humble and simple (colours),
sanguine (as though real to me, "flesh and blood" real),
dressed and ornamented in age-appropriate fashion.
At that very moment, I say, the very "soul of me",
residing in that most secret chamber of my heart,
shook so violently (at the sight of her richly arrayed,
angelic) no one part of me seemed to escape (the shaking)..."

(Vita Nuova Rime, Dante Alighieri)

While looking for Deleuze in Dante, captured
by his longing (as seen through feminine eyes).
To note the soul purpose of his quest which can
only be to find her again, his Beatrice, in a n y
nebulous form. Or as C writes, nebular Dante.
Ironically, exile and absence cast Dante! into
genius; this cups my current captivation with
his story. As does C's description of it:

"The qualities of a writing as the outpouring of a
"heart cracked wide open", of a self-decentering soul
chasing after an impossible "angel"."

"Amor, non già per mia poca bontate,
Ma per sua nobiltate,
Mi pose in vita sì dolce e soave
Ch’io mi sentia dir dietro spesse fiate:
“Deo, per qual dignitate
Così leggiadro questi lo core have?”"

"Ha, Love! I had it good once, the "sweet life", so sweet
I swear I could even hear 'em say behind my back:
"God, he's out of this world!
This guy with such a sensitive and refined
heart?" But I enjoyed it for a time not because I deserved it, eh?
You (Love) just wanted to be in control
for awhile."

(Vita Nuova Rime, Dante Alighieri)

Dante indeed.


Happy New Year,
dear reader,
whoever you are.