This is rather like indoor camping. A dribble of hot water, a constant draft, a fire. Cooking on gas, tiny refrigerator, no cupboards. Bed very cot-like. The sound of the stream outside, the waterfall. This morning a fisherman stood hip-boot-high middle of the torrenti with a retractable pole, casting. Fishing season opened today (or yesterday) and apparently there is some life in this stream. The mailman drives by and honks; I don’t know why. It’s pretty quiet here, the end of the road about a mile and a half uphill, maybe a half dozen farms up the road. Peered in through the laundry room at the ancient millworks, the date “1767” carved into a stone.
At the antiques market, Arezzo: things, pieces of things,
pieces of pieces of things:
armoires, WWII army helmets, 19th century botanical prints,
a bar of hotel soap with the Porsche logo, dentist tools,
prosthetic glass eyes, iron candlesticks, rakes & brooms,
rope by the meter, tablecloths, doilies, embroidered napkins,
seventies-handbags, boots & shoes, hand-carved chairs,
dining tables, books, wooden pieces of old buildings
(window frames, mouldings, door panels, lintels),
ceramic jugs, tea cups, sets of silverware in ornate cases,
a stethoscope, mosaic tiles, oil portraits of anonymous
dowagers, mirrors, hand-knitted hats & gloves,
sets of china, rhinestone broaches – all existing
in a chilled fog, the threat of rain, street after cobbled street.