Andrea, a punster after my own heart, is moving his place down Corso Garibaldi, the main drag:

Long we stood, looking across the divide
Without a functioning bridge between us.

Our plans a flop, according to the papers,
It’s time to get back to a study of Italian.

Former colony and fortress without a future

These were not the tools of Reb’s trade,
Laid out before me on the extra bed.

The ones, instead, we bought at the tower
Store later (without our Italian dictionary).

Awake this morning, 5:31 a.m.

Tools of the trade play on a mind
Focused, in frustration, on the web

Unavailable, in the here and now,
As I wrack said instrument for lines

That Milton penned in his invocation
To that wry Christian humanist muse.

Of a notebook, Rebecca’s drop cloths
And Inktense blocks of a color scheme,

I spy on the red cover of a spare bed,
Before I think to pull out my Canon G16

And angle myself down to sore knees
On the hard floor for a studied shot.

(Terrazza Bella, 6:19)

Surest way to cure a cold:

In a blind spot, on a path we travel often, sits the studio of a critically acclaimed master.

We had seen his art work before, by accident, when another exhibit in Norcia closed early.

A good thing, then, that I asked Rebecca if she wanted to stop. Who knew what we’d find?

“Stories made by stones at the seaside.” New work, inspired by the birth of his great-granddaughter Gaia.

Walking along a beach, finding found-art in the stones, is one thing–enjoyable, but not necessarily transformative.

But to attach the stones to the piece of art, coupling it with the painting it inspires, now that’s something else.

To see the stones for yourself. Then to see the artist’s rendering of what nature itself has already expressed. Amazing.

Between the stones and whatever interface kept us away from this artist before, I am grateful that it has passed.

Now, if I could only get my devices to sync up, I could move the research on Bizzarri further along.