Third Install of Foggia-ville and Me

Busty women hang their day's wash on wires stretched just outside window sills. The sills are monolith stones, white washed and continually peeling. They show worn because women rub their torsos on them as they stretch and pin garments. Everything is made of stone, brick and mortar. The city is devoid of dry-rotting wood. Their apartment is like a geode. When you slice open the rough round exterior, inside is a diamond cache surrounded by thick stone.

The standi panni dances in the breeze outside to tell all others that the house is in daily order. Holy Ghosts might dance in the day on the stone sill, gleefully around the fringe separating from the old towels, and conspicuous undergarments; Standards waving ciao and auguri to saints and sinners passing underneath; last goodbye to husbands going to work first of two shifts.

Someone sprayed "DayGo" on the bulkhead wall last night, in the alley. Others have spent hours painting a tribute to technology; shows a monster eating cell phones and CPU's. Huh?

And the beggars at intersections look pretty well-dressed. "Niente per tu," I learn to say to Gypsy's outstretched hand.

Word Jazz Foggian style starts when we are in our nephews' Fiat, Fiesta, or Opel. Only Foggian's drive here, and breathe Foggian epithets at Chinese and Moroccan drivers. Only Foggians are the masters of drift, pause and nose prerequisites of intersections-- where red lights are ignored, along with stop signs and flashing yellows. Smart Cars zip in and out almost as easily as Vespas, but there is obviously no room for Impala, GTO or T-birds. These US icons would be stuck at intersections, clipped by Peugeot, Alfa and Fiat.

In all locations of Foggia where I find myself, I meditate a lot. Even as my nephews drive I am in an alter state of conscience. Much thought is centered on colors, shapes and horizons. Each new panorama begins with a backdrop of yonder reckoned hues, not unknown to subconscious thought. Could I be more abstruse?

I painted while I was there. A nephew drove me to an art store, I found reasonably priced stretched linens and excellent acrylics, to make some storybook impressions for my in-laws. They loved it. Little ones sat beside me and watched and became enamored. What a joy to be able to share this triumph. On the flight home I still saw brush strokes and palettes in my head when I closed my eyes. How others cannot see the pattern and colors of Foggia-ville, well it is not for me to speak, but to paint and photograph.

Later might be more >>pd