april 14 he sees angels in the architecture, spinning in infinity and he says 'Amen' and 'Hallelujah!' I keep thinking of the highlights of the Firenze trip, none of which I admit I've detailed here: Walking down a narrow street at night to meet fellow wedding guests to go drinking, pausing before a particularly lovely building (a museum, as it turned out) and blinking at the cornices and brickwork and cherubs with partial faces and chipped bodies and I keep thinking that while it's what I knew would be here, it's hard to explain how feels to be surrounded by it. It's the difference between looking at a beautiful painting and living in one. And then, from behind me a low burring begins, a warm liquid sound of a cello and I turn. A woman busker is playing for change, playing the instrument I once toyed with and she's making the whole painting I've found myself in unbearably perfect. I want to thank God in alms and thanks for putting me in this place at this time; instead, I give her ten lire and dab my eyes and continue on to the piazza.
Another moment, less melodramatic: As I pass through a flea market of discounted belts, scarves, ties which peel open to reveal nudie girls, souvenirs, purses and various tzoskies, a vendor calls out to me in English, "If you buy something here, you can have me for free!"
Back home I'm tidying up the house in anticipation of mom visiting on Tuesday. After scrubbing for an hour with a combination (not at the same time) of Murphy's Oil soap and Scrubbing Bubbles (and even a touch of bleach on the tough spots) the linoleum in the kitchen looks presentable. (May I just digress to genuflect upon the brilliance of Murphy's -- it smells okay, doesn't kill my hands, and is safe to clean pretty much anything. The only bad part is that I can never get out that damn jingle: "I've been using Murphy's Oil Soap on this wood floor of mine. Now the dirt is finished but the finish is fine.") Whoever decided to make the kitchen essentially all white needs his head examined; the walking treads alone make the floor look filthy. But it had to be done.
Saw The Minus Man last night. Owen Wilson's pouty lip frightens me. And there was this odd synergistic moment -- the family Wilson comes to live with are the Derwans (it sounds like Derwin in the film). The only Derwin I know is Mark Derwin, from the soap I cover, One Life To Live. (He used to be on Guiding Light, too -- his name was Mallet. Yeah, I know.) I digress. So throughout most of the movie, which I'm enjoying (anything with Janeane Garofalo in it is worth a peek), I keep thinking "Mark Derwin." Then, in the final third -- Mark Derwin shows up as a cop. I had no idea. It was a strange, elevated moment of mundanity, entirely different and yet somehow the same as the cello in Firenze.
