Choosing What To Look At

Transcript:

06/06/09

     Yesterday I visited St. Peter's Basilica.  It was Huge.  I don't very much care for stuff like that though.  Gold-plated ceilings, statues writhing in ecstasy, sarcophagi set out for pilgrims to cry over.  I was disturbed by it more than anything.  As we walked the outerwalls to Vatican City, a homeless man sprawled out on the sidewalk begged for salvation, but the kind that is immediate, tangible.  Yet, his hat was empty.  I don't know what affliction he had, but the most grotesque lumps took hold of this man's scalp, almost as if to place more salt on the wound he calls existence.  And of course, St Peter's is littered with boxes asking for offerings, which have no problem being filled by eager, passionate tourists and pilgrims alike.  Opulence.  Extravagence. Magnificence.  While the poor line the outer walls, starving.  It's always been that way; the poor should know their place.  And every person that walks by, avoiding eye contact, shamed by their own indifference, by their refusal to acknowledge what lies in front of them, quite literally, reminds the poor that only themselves can be blamed for the position they're in.  The Church helps those who can give back, monetarily or spiritually.  Selflessness comes with a price.
      The thing that gets me is that, it will always be that way.  The power structure may be selling you something under a different name, but the poor will always be scorned, the streets will always be filled with empty stomachs and extinguished dreams that die alone and cold at night.  Tears are shed for Popes and saints.
     It seems as if every churce has a poor person right outside, while inside, marble, gold, "beauty" encapsulate man.  As I stepped into the sun, exiting a church with a famous Caravaggio painting, a man across the way caught my attention.  Barefoot, tattered, covered in a dark grime such as one sees on buildings from centuries ago, he smoked a cigarette, incessantly shaking his head side to side.  He seemed completely unaware of the mannerism that is so utterly revealing of his subconscious.  No, no, no.  Forever and always, no.  Entirely, no.  I walked down the steps, right past him.  For a moment, a breath, our eyes met.  A deep, ash gray looked inside me, daring me to see the truth and torment within his.  With shame, I studied the ground beneath my feet, escaping.
     The churches throughout Rome are flanked by gypsies, standing at the entrance with a tin can, asking for change.  Some are dressed nicely, wearing slacks, a button-up shirt, a nice watch.  The second they realizethat you're American they start to beg in English.  "Please...change...please...", like a child begging their mother for a new toy with everything they can muster, the best trick in the book to pluck the strings of the heart.

06/7/09  - Rome

     9 hours of walking yesterday.  Lots of pictures of strangers with the D50.  Having these 2GB cards is great.  Across the street from the hotel there's a sign that says "Hemmingwey", reminding me of the author.  The building the sign is on is a muted yellow, paint scratched off in patches, years of dust accumulating on the balconies.  It may rain today.  The clouds are extremely foreboding, a deep gray like a worn & beaten sidewalk.
     Sitting in the Roman baths, the rain begins its downpour, smearing the ink on the paper.
     Rome is essentially one tourist trap after another. Statues writhe in ecstasy, obelisks pierce through through the clouds, and one can't help but feel unceasing emptiness by it all.  The remnants of an empire are now cascaded by metal detectors and immigrants selling knock-off purses.  Save for the laid back attitude of the Italians and the lush asses and long legs of their women, I couldn't stand it here.  It sucks you in, promising you masterpiece after masterpiece.  I'd just call it good marketing.  I find more life, more passion of the sould in the ruins of ancient, pre-Christian Rome.
     Come to Rome if you never want to take a picture again, good god!  Nothing is seen except through that of a viewfinder.  The monumental size and history of the Colosseum is reduced to millions of pixels, silver halide crystals, maybe.  To prove they were there.  To who, I'm not sure.  But I do know that the experience becomes secondary, tarnished, left to be stored in a "memory" card, instead of in the senses; the smells, textures, claustrophobia, sore feet.