A childhood year living in a medieval Italian city has haunted – in a friendly way – all of the other places I've ever lived. Part 1 of 2. (3 minute read)
I love this piece so far Adam. I too fell in love with those little Italian towns but I only had a week there about ten years ago. What a wonderful gift from your childhood to have spent a year rambling along those streets.
🙏 Thank you, Ben. It was a special gift to live there at an incredibly turbulent time in my family life. It's the best remembered year of my life. In fact, it is the only year of my life where I can specifically locate memories almost to the month. That year is a treasure chest for me. If I was to go looking for my Self, I would look there – which is the point here.
That’s amazing. We live so much of our lives without recording anything into our permanent memory. What a gift to have an entire year from your childhood. It sounds like you needed that shelter, that protected place from the storm.
Rich and wholly wonderful! I feel reverent toward this piece---how close it lives within you, this heart-place, your Bergamo.
I puzzled awhile to myself whether this was sadness or joy...but certainly it is both...and more. All the sensory combinations of those days clicking into place word by word, welcomed me along with every "I will... I will... I will...", and it reads like a beautiful, longing mantra. Love your last line...
Gorgeous evocative writing. I absolutely love this essay: Looking forward to part 11. Adam, I'd also like you to consider being a guest writer on my collaborative substack: https://innerlifecollaborative.substack.com -- If interested for a future date, write me. I'm a subscriber so you have my email address. ~ Mary
Did a day in Bergamo in 2003, it is enchanting but other than a couple snaps, hard-pressed to remember much else - it was one of THOSE trips, 10 cities in 2 weeks, which we avoid nowadays - also we were with two Italians, which if you count my husband (which I'm afraid I must) makes three Italians, or two too many, depending on your reckoning, i.e., a LOT more TALKING than enjoying.
Are you constructing a memory palace of your Bergamo Alta?
The more Italians the better, particularly around a dinner table.
I am not constructing a memory palace, but I LOVE them, and, although, my memory palaces have been closer to memory dollhouses, I find them fascinating. If only I could get them to "work" better. For a while, I had French sentences mapped to everything in my apartment. I was starting to run out of household objects to hang sentences on.
What heights will we reach before the wax turns fluid and the borrowed wings slip our grasping fingers?
I want that voice, it’s the devil himself speaking, confidently, flawless in its imperfection. Nice to meet you, he says, shall I say out loud what you are longing for?
Thank you for the museum of your heart. I was twenty three there when I met you; I still hear the 10pm cacaphony of 10 PM bells.
And I was seven, and I didn't think I'd ever seen anyone prettier.
Exquisite visual of the frescos 👌
🙏
I love this piece so far Adam. I too fell in love with those little Italian towns but I only had a week there about ten years ago. What a wonderful gift from your childhood to have spent a year rambling along those streets.
🙏 Thank you, Ben. It was a special gift to live there at an incredibly turbulent time in my family life. It's the best remembered year of my life. In fact, it is the only year of my life where I can specifically locate memories almost to the month. That year is a treasure chest for me. If I was to go looking for my Self, I would look there – which is the point here.
That’s amazing. We live so much of our lives without recording anything into our permanent memory. What a gift to have an entire year from your childhood. It sounds like you needed that shelter, that protected place from the storm.
Indeed.
Rich and wholly wonderful! I feel reverent toward this piece---how close it lives within you, this heart-place, your Bergamo.
I puzzled awhile to myself whether this was sadness or joy...but certainly it is both...and more. All the sensory combinations of those days clicking into place word by word, welcomed me along with every "I will... I will... I will...", and it reads like a beautiful, longing mantra. Love your last line...
You're right on the money, Toni. "How close it lives within you, this heart-place." It is a meditation on the Self. Thanks for your note.
Really enjoyed this.
When some people tell a story I swear you can taste the words.
🙏
Gorgeous evocative writing. I absolutely love this essay: Looking forward to part 11. Adam, I'd also like you to consider being a guest writer on my collaborative substack: https://innerlifecollaborative.substack.com -- If interested for a future date, write me. I'm a subscriber so you have my email address. ~ Mary
🙏 Thank you, Mary. As I mentioned separately, I'd be honored to contribute to Inner Life Collaborative. Thank you for that invitation.
Did a day in Bergamo in 2003, it is enchanting but other than a couple snaps, hard-pressed to remember much else - it was one of THOSE trips, 10 cities in 2 weeks, which we avoid nowadays - also we were with two Italians, which if you count my husband (which I'm afraid I must) makes three Italians, or two too many, depending on your reckoning, i.e., a LOT more TALKING than enjoying.
Are you constructing a memory palace of your Bergamo Alta?
The more Italians the better, particularly around a dinner table.
I am not constructing a memory palace, but I LOVE them, and, although, my memory palaces have been closer to memory dollhouses, I find them fascinating. If only I could get them to "work" better. For a while, I had French sentences mapped to everything in my apartment. I was starting to run out of household objects to hang sentences on.
No, I'm focused on Zen-inspired sacrilege here.
What a beautiful story so far Adam. I felt like I was there with you.
Thanks you for the kind words (and for your own writing). If you're reading this, go check out 'Songs That Saved Your Life.'
What heights will we reach before the wax turns fluid and the borrowed wings slip our grasping fingers?
I want that voice, it’s the devil himself speaking, confidently, flawless in its imperfection. Nice to meet you, he says, shall I say out loud what you are longing for?
Comment of the Week. 😂 🏆
Oy. Ugh. Oof. Wow. Your prose renders me speechless, just uttering expletives and sighs.