Hamish Gunn has introduced us to something completely new for me – a form of writing, closely related to poetry – the kikôbun. Our task on Carpe Diem this time is to write a kikôbun – about a journey, or part of a journey or wander. The idea of it being about wandering and observing is very relevant. I decided to give it a try:
The very first time I set foot in that city, I felt at home. Like a traveller who had been around the world and finally had returned to the place, recognized by her heart immediately. There was nothing of the fleeting touristy pathos about the cradle of the Renaissance. Nor need to see all the “obligatory” objects to tick the check-boxes in some non-existing bucket list. I didn’t need to fall in love with it because you don’t fall in love with home – it simply is a part of you. And I knew by the sixth and all the other senses I was right where I was supposed to be.
The feeling of different depth, something that reached beyond my comprehension, yet was not lost in translation for my soul. I found myself standing at Piazza del Duomo with my fingertips exploring the marble of the Baptistery…so familiar, like they had brushed over it before often, in silent admiration. Awareness about where one or another street labyrinth would take me like I had walked there hundreds of times. It was not so much Ponte Vecchio with all the opulent golden bling in the window cases that brought back almost real memories. More like a distant spot down at the Arno river, nearby the stone arches of Ponte Santa Trinita…a reminder of the times I used to watch almost tangible fog slowly disappearing during the morning hours. Or in winter, as the first snow had covered the red rooftops, I had kneeled at the edge of the water, perplexed when the stream in its dark anger wouldn’t nurture the white peacefulness. Yes, the constant fusion in the air, the one I would call “the graceful beauty”, created by art and culture, frequently obstructed by political rises and falls. And those filigree fleur-de-lys all around the city, trying to smooth the sharp edges of Medici stories by purity of lillies.
I don’ t know which was my time there but for sure it goes back much further than Benigni and Gucci. To Galilei or maybe Boticelli. Or probably all the way to Boccacio when he was in need for a muse to create “The Decameron“. Who knows…
Sipping a glass of dark, rich vintage and remembering how the sun generously caressed the ripe olives in the hills of Tuscany, I know there is something more in me than simple fondness for Florence. Imprinted to be decoded some day. In vino veritas.
frozen garden
fleeting across the window panes
silhouette of lily
Ese' s Voice 