Desire
I want to live here.
Perhaps I should be more specific. I want to live here in one of the houses perched on the edge because the ones in the middle would be too claustrophobic and there would be too many people in my thinking space but near the edge the open air and sea would solve all that, and I want to eat red tomatoes like apples and shaved parmesan so pungent it is painful and listen to the old man fix his boat (the one in the lower left) while singing Nessun Dorma and hear the wind flap through the laundry that is drying in the sun, and write the great American novel (or Italian? is it where you write it, or who you are?) or a slammin’ PhD dissertation on some majorly academic topic that gets made into a surprise Broadway hit (a musical, of course) with a score by Philip Glass and narration by, yes, Mr Collins.
Maybe I’m just due for a vacation–or, at the very least, some seriously good olive oil. I spoke at a conference two weeks ago that afterwards presented me with a catalog of fantastic gifts to choose from–how wonderful!–and being the good mother that I am, I chose the Coleman tent that sleeps 2,000 people, which is now set up in our backyard. Perhaps rather than going to Italy, I’ll just go out to the tent for a few weeks. That seems almost the same as living in this quaint Italian village on the sea.
(photo from here)
