Still Life

There are moments in life, so monumental and still, that the memory can never be retrieved without a catch to the throat or an interruption to the beat of the heart. Can never be retrieved without the rumbling disquiet of how close that moment came to not having happened at all.

No single act of generosity remains in isolation. The ripples are many.

So, time heals. Mostly. Sometimes carelessly. And in unsuspecting moments, the pain catches and reminds one of all that's been missing. The fulcrum of what might have been. But then it passes. Winter moves into spring and swallows return. The proximity of new skin returns to the sheets. Beauty does what is required. Jobs fulfil and conversations inspire. Loneliness becomes a mere Sunday. Scattered clothes. Empty bowls. Rotting fruit. Passing time. But still life in all its beauty and complexity.

Beautiful art opens our eyes to the beauty of the world, Ulysses. It repositions our sight and judgement. Captures forever that which is fleeting.

And for two hours the wine was poured, the cheese cut, and the two men talked. Of what? Who knows? Of love, of war, of the past. And they listened with hearts instead of ears, and in the candle-lit kitchen three floors up in an old palazzo, death was put on hold.

Tree said, Thanks for everything. It’s been nice knowing you. You too, said Cress. Will you be OK? I’m a tree. I’ve done this a thousand times before. Done what? Goodbyes. Really? Think about it. Leaves

...the world never turned out the way you wanted it to. It simply turned. And you hung on.

Art versus humanity is not the question, Ulysses. One doesn’t exist without the other. Art is the antidote.

What are we without love? Waiting, said Evelyn.

the responsibility of privilege must always be to raise others up.

We like beauty, don’t we? Something good on the eye cheers us. Does something to us on a cellular level, makes us feel alive and enriched. Beautiful art opens our eyes to the beauty of the world, Ulysses. It repositions our sight and judgment. Captures forever that which is fleeting. A meager stain in the corridors of history, that’s all we are. A little mark of scuff.

Two people pulling each other into Salvation is the only theme I find worthwhile. —E. M. Forster, Commonplace Book

The scale of man—spatially—is about midway between the atom and the star.

My granddaughter. She ran away to experience the nascent stirrings of love (le nascenti agitazioni dell'amore—Cress remembered the words from a poem) and now love has run away from her. She's somewhere up there—and he pointed to the black hills—cradling a broken heart, attempting to understand the complexity of human emotion. Why it's left her diminished when not long ago she felt like a conqueror. And here am I thinking what words can give the experience value. How to explain to her that the improbability of love, which she feels will last forever, will one day shine its light again. What words of consolation can be offered? What words of reassurance can I give her that a life lived without the object of her love is still worthwhile and hers for the taking?

I said you could never disappoint me, Alys. I'm proud of every inch of you. Every miniscule part of your being. Of your thoughts and your joy and your rage. The way you sing and navigate your way in this often godforsaken— I love a girl. (Pause.) Lucky girl, I say—world. They looked at one another and the distance halved. Ulysses said, A new year, Alys. I hope it's worthy of you.

Open your heart. Things happen there, if you let them. Wonderful things.

It’s what we’ve always done. Left a mark on a cave, or on a page. Showing who we are, sharing our view of the world, the life we’re made to bear. Our turmoil is revealed in those painted faces – sometimes tenderly, sometimes grotesquely, but art becomes a mirror. All the symbolism and the paradox, ours to interpret. That’s how it becomes part of us.

The choice for the educated woman was clear and stark. Marriage and no creative expression. Or convent and creative expression. So, women entered the convent in order to paint. Such was the sacrifice. But when have women not sacrificed to live as they feel? Not all of us will embrace men, marriage, motherhood.

And they listened with hearts instead of ears,

We're embarking on a world of new language and new systems. A world of stares and misunderstandings and humiliations and we'll feel every single one of them, boy. But we mustn't let our inability to know what's what diminish us. Because it'll try. We have to remains curious and open. Two words for you: ley lines. Ley lines? Straight lines of electromagnetic energy crisscrossing the Earth at special sites, drawing men and women—and ideas—to their mysterious pulse. We were drawn here, temps. No two ways about it. As many have been before. That Baedeker book? You know what it said? Go on. That 'even those whose usual avocations are of the most prosaic nature unconsciously become admirers of poetry and art in Italy.' Would that be so bad? To become an admirer of poetry and art? Until we figure it all out. It wouldn't, Cress. To be infused with all the city has to offer and has offered over the centuries? Our purpose revealing itself like the slow unfolding of an iris flower. Ulysses grinned. It's started already, Cress. What has? The poetry. Cress blushed and stood up. I'll get the cheese, he said.

To what shall we toast? said Darnley. What do you think, Temps? To this moment, sir. Oh, very good, said Evelyn. To this moment.

All those moments, those years, were his now. To remember or to forget. That’s what Ulysses said. So I choose to remember. The best man ever. And everything about him is vivid. And he is young. And he is laughing.

How beautiful is sunset, when the glow of heaven descends upon a land like thee, Thou paradise of exiles, Italy.

Col loved the silence that followed; he could have fucked it twice and cooked it breakfast.

Life’s but a walking shadow, Ulysses. I know, said Ulysses, holding him close to his chest. I know, I know. And I do love nothing in the world . . . so well . . . as you.

Santissima Annunziata in the north, Santo Spirito in the south, Santa Maria Novella over in the west, and Santa Croce in the east.