An Open Window

Low, grey cloud blanketing the muted city

Humans hiding under the cover of fear and command.

Quiet,steady drizzle falling on rooftops and roadways

landing on the ground with its own little ditty;

Shifting direction with the breeze from the ocean

flowing from the skies and in constant motion.

While autumn leaves are dancing to a rhythm of their own

and the birds and the wind come together in song

with the swaying, the swaying, the swaying of branches,

the sea joins the chorus so the anthem enhances.  

The waves are revelling in their freedom to soar

as man-made mechanisms weigh them down no more,

gulping in air, with sighs of relief,

to relish the respite, however brief.

Rising up on their haunches to peak near the sky,

taunting the seabirds and tickling their thighs.

Starlings are hopping from berry to berry,

dining with joy at no interruption.

The feast is ongoing and gathers more guests

before the sunset there’ll be little rest.

Trees are rustling with feathers and feet

as delighted birds chatter, singing praise for this treat,

“While the human’s away, nature will play!”

                                                                                                             © Francesca Pelli

                                                                                                                                         Cape Town

                                                                                                                             20 April 2020 (lockdown day 25)

Leonardo da Vinci's Left-Handed Legacy ~ and me

My Zio Edoardo (Lozio) was married to my aunt, mamma Nelly's younger sister, Silva (Lazia). (Sandro, my brother, and I ended up calling them 'Lozio' and 'Lazia', nicknames resulting from our mashing of the correct article use in Italian ) Lozio, who sadly passed away a long time ago,was an extraordinary man. Larger than life in his presence, his appetite, his curiosity, his thirst for knowledge, his actual knowledge, his humour, his work ~ Edoardo was a husband, son, uncle, doctor,  philosopher, historian, puzzle maker, book collector (the most well-read person I've ever met) lover of  cats, Stanlio e Ollio (Laurel and Hardy), practical jokes and burping competitions.(He always won.) Highly intelligent, funny and engaging, he could tell you a story or give you information about absolutely anyone or anything. Want to know how to say 'cod' in Italian? Done. Want to know who invented the first pair of stockings? Done. Want to know the names of five types of butterfly? Done. The history of Laurel and Hardy? That too. Capital of Mars? Yep. Name it, he had it. And if he didn't, he'd find it. Keep in mind that there was no such thing as Google then.

As kids, Sandro and I used to go to Italy to spend some summers there with family that we only saw for those holidays. Sometimes, mamma would be there, but sometimes it was just us. We used to stay with Lozio and Lazia most of the time since they had no children and had space at home. We also spent time with aunts and uncles on my dad, Lorenzo's, side - Zia Anna, Luigi, Zio Roberto (who sadly passed away a week after mamma in 2015), Laura, and cousins Roberta, Alessandro, Chiara and Lorenzo. We were very lucky to have those times in Trieste, Lignano, Grado and Belvedere, bonding with faraway relatives and building lifetime memories with food, cats, walks, sunshine, the city, the sea and gelato.

"So, where the heck does Leonardo fit into all of this?"  I hear you cry! Ok well - no, he wasn't there or a family member, but I was introduced to him by Lozio Edoardo, of course, who told me that Leonardo da Vinci was a lefty - like me. Da Vinci was also a genius. Like me. ( Ok, maybe not quite there yet) He also used mirror writing, starting on the right-hand side of the page moving to the left. To be able to read it, one would have to use a mirror or read through the back of the page if it wasn't double-sided. No-one is really sure why he did it but there are some interesting theories (and a fun activity) here:  https://www.mos.org/leonardo/activities/mirror-writing

After this introduction, Lozio suggested that we start writing letters to each other across the seas using Leo's 'special writing' so that our correspondence would be secret. And we did. It felt much easier for me to write from right to left although my letter formation suffered somewhat,but I started practising more and more and it got a lot better. I wish I still had the letters to look at now but those got lost a long time ago, unfortunately. As I got older, I found that when I was bored, like during some classes at school and then lectures at university, I'd take notes in mirror writing. Obviously, it took more effort afterwards to decipher them with or without a mirror, but it kept me challenged and I felt incredibly special and clever. (Must be the genius in me) It was fun and very rewarding to see people's reactions to this writing too and as the years went by, I'd play with it in class, with friends and when journaling. I still do. I also started toying with writing with both hands at the same time with the left hand moving from left to right and the right hand moving from right to left. I can do it better on a whiteboard but paper work is improving. I try the other way round too so that I go right to left with the left and left to right with the right. I guess this reflects some kind of ambidexterity? I do use scissors with my right, I use a knife and fork like a righty, and I kick with my right foot too. And guess what? Leonardo, our famed genius, was probably ambidextrous too. See where I'm going with this?

Anyway, last year I bought myself a sketch book so that I could write or draw or stick stuff in, looking at different ways to express myself more creatively and as a focus when feeling overwhelmed or with nothing to do. I wanted this journal-of-sorts to be where there was no structure and where
I just went with whatever came up and out. Opening onto a fresh page and filling it with whatever, in any form. And one day, the mirror writing appeared and I just carried on- there was no topic, no event, no reaction - just writing. As I put words onto the paper, others appeared again and again until the page was full. I named the piece 'Human By Association' once I was getting towards the end because it all unfolded as I was writing. One idea led to another, another, another. I found that I couldn't break the stream by lifting the pen to move to the one side of the page so... it became a combination of right-to-left-left-to-right down the whole page.This was the first time I had produced double-directional writing (is that a thing?) When I looked back, I noticed that the ideas connected through association, capturing typical human states,moments, events, places,creations. There's a lot of life in there in those questions about states,moments, events,places and creations and I recognise them in mine.


Here it is. I hope you take the time to read it. I would so appreciate hearing what you found and what you think.

Do you read yourself in there too?


      ........................................................................................... Start here!

Right to left then left to right ..and so on 

And so this is where Leonardo da Vinci's left-handed legacy got me. I'm proud and excited about being able to do this and happy to share it (show off?!) and to find out what and how much YOU relate to this, any of it.

I've included a link to another site about our genius, Leonardo, here:
http://lefthanderslegacy.org/leonardo-da-vinci/

Who knows, you may find out you're a genius too. Like me. ;-)


and here, some light entertainment in Lozio's memory albeit with a slightly modern touch:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BabXYevQwmE



                                                                                                       (c) Francesca Pelli
                                                                                                             Cape Town
                                                                                                             18 April 2020

The Ocean of Love and Loss

Halfway into a lockdown that has put the world on hold because of the global Covid-19 pandemic,  I'm starting to feel the effects of being on my own for so long , without the option to venture out for some noise and human interaction. Spending so much time in my head brings up all sorts of things...and some of them compound the heavier emotions at times. Like now.

Last night, before I fell asleep, an image popped into my mind and with it, the title for this post.The ocean in Cape Town, on the Atlantic Seaboard,a winter's day. Blue,blue skies, gentle breeze, high tide ~ and rough. "Ok," you might be thinking, "and?" Well, this image is connected to a morning last year when I drove down to sit by the water's edge to try and process someone's departure. A person who came into my life unexpectedly,a person I came to care about tremendously, someone who gifted me beautifully unforgettable moments of romance, laughter, fun, passion and friendship. And left.  

No, no,the reason for the departure isn't as dramatic as you may be predicting! It was time for him to go back to his country after a few months in South Africa~ but I won't lie, I felt it as powerfully as the event in your dramatic prediction would feel. It was still a loss, the death of something that had had life breathed into it, and then taken away. Breath- taking. (Read that as you will)

So I went to look for some comfort in nature, and sat by the water for a few hours. (I won't bore you with the details of how many tears I shed or how many doughnuts I ate) It was once I got home that the words I'd collected there released themselves onto paper. 

Here they are.

The Ocean of Love and Loss

This morning I sat by the ocean and watched how it mirrored all that is happening inside of me.

How the waves moved closer and curved to meet each other 

like I, with you.

How they built momentum with their power to rush to touch

like I, with you.

How they rose together in their strength to hold onto the high

like I, with you.

How they blended together, losing their edges and folding into each other

like I, with you.

How they fell down together,breathing,but holding on

like I, with you.

How they crashed into the rocks and slowed to inhale, once again

like I, with you.

How they slowed down and took another breath before being pulled out again

like I, with you.

How they moved back towards the horizon, lower than before

like you.

How they looked to the shore for a safe place to land

like me.

                                                                   

                                                                                           (c) Francesca Pelli  11/08/2019

                                                                               - for F.M. -

I've always been a hopeless romantic. Words on paper have always been my outlet for expression.  Is there any better way to capture love?

Synchronicity Spurs a Memory

I'm a great believer and lover of synchronicity. I've recently reconnected with some wonderful beings that I have held close to my heart since I met them in Barcelona,Spain years ago. It had been almost four years since I'd seen them. We met in Cape Town this week, after last having spent time together in their new-found home village of Lagrasse, Aude in France. It was the very same day that we reconnected that I came across something I'd written the last time I was in Lagrasse.

a little bit of background... I hadn't been there before my 40th birthday and it was Mark who suggested I hire a gite for the celebratory weekend. It couldn't have been more memorable.  After a couple of weekend visits, I was invited to the event of the century - Mark and Carlos's wedding. October 2014. I was lucky enough to be able to get there earlier and I was given the honourable role of concierge to the wedding guests. I was shown all the accommodation, lined up with the keys and tasked with looking after the sporadic arrivals. It was a simple, yet wonderful job as I got to meet all the guests and many locals from the village. I got to see some of the special little abodes as I walked up cobbled streets and opened the doors to history alive in the present. What a weekend it was. Classic cars and headwear, champagne in the square, sunshine and smiles with strangers, music, laughter and wine. Dancing in the village hall, love exploding in the valley.

Once it was over, I stayed on in the village as the newly-weds flew off to Venezia. I had their beautiful warm home to look after, with Clarke, the spunky little kitten,for company. It was a week of grazing on left-over cheese and cupcakes, loafing in the herb garden guzzling wine that had been tucked under the stairs, boardgames,dinners and chuckles all in  French, walks through the vineyards and the cemetery,by the river and the abbey. Movies and woodfires, Clarke and cuddles.

There was one afternoon when I went down to the river. I was the only one there. This was the moment captured in the little notebook I'd carried with me in the hope of being struck by artistic inspiration. I like to think that it worked. Will you follow the words and make their picture? Then will you look at the picture and tell me if it's what you saw in your mind's eye? Don't look yet! Promise?!

                                                                                                                                 Lagrasse, France
                                                                                                                                 October 20th, 2014

If I were a writer, I'd be able to put the picture I'm sitting in into words. I'd sit you here, on this rock, on my right, to take in what I see through the letters in your eyes.

You'd  feel the hardness of this thick, grey boulder under your bum, and its coolness under your bare feet as we sit in the shade. The surface is mottled with spots of bright,white lichen stains and dark crevices of time that are the pathway of transit for the single file of black ants as they carry their daily bread home.

We're looking at the river as it flows from our west on the right to our east through one enormous arch towards another. You'd be able to hear the notes of the water as it gurgles quietly over the little dip formed by some large stones in its path as it follows the sun downstream ~ strangely, away from where it will set.

The level is low and the whitened pebbles in all their sizes are exposed to the afternoon breeze. A small black-and-white bird with a tail longer than its body bounces up and down,trots and flip flaps across the smooth tops. He is joined by another,and together, they chirrup and chase each other in tight,low circles, skimming the tiny yellow flowers on the opposite bank.

This side of the river is the widest, and if I were a painter, I'd be able to capture all the autumn colours in front of me with a brush : the squatter,frothy green iced with yellow, spread most generously along here; the sharper,drier copper crispness in a narrower,taller line closer to the water ~ caught half in the shade while reddening in the warmth of red October.

I could possibly manage to copy the arched dark semi-circle of flat stones lying against the river bed ~ the highest point just short of a low-slung,dense dark green plant whose leaves are bowed down as though drinking.

I'd just about catch the concentric circles that shiny little jumping fish made as it fell back into its liquid golden safety net after an insect attempt. 

I might even find a way to etch the lines of the rectangular windows set amongst the blocks of grey-brown medieval stones squared by history and now, watching the same centuries-old sun as when they were first raised. 

Just like us.

                                                                                                    The River Orbieu, Lagrasse

A Wanderer's Tale of Woe

How the sweetness becomes bitter. Once the novelty of your appearance or return have worn off, those around you slot back into - or continue - their lives ... from which you have been invisible and far. The invitations die down, the questions subside,your excitement of telling others you've lived away or have been away fades and you become one, no-one, just there.

It's a lonely road this one, one where you can go absolutely anywhere and be with anyone and feel like you belong when you get wherever. And belong,even for a little.Until you realise that the road you have taken,the one you are taking is yours and yours alone. That no matter where you are or where you go,you're just a passer-by.

So you wave and keep moving,moving,moving - maybe to find someone who will say 'Hey! Stop what you're doing,don't go where you're going and stay here with me,here in my heart. I've been waiting for you.' And perhaps it's that searching that makes your heart open wider and the borders fall away faster as you reach out and smile for a kindred spirit. And then you find that often, their heart is more closed,the borders are well-guarded and you've been looking into a world of distrust,the mirror of your aloneness.

The echo of what you do and how you see the world on your journey rebounds constantly. The emptiness of the choices you've made and the loss of bonds you believed forged. The hope that this time will be different and your presence or absence will be noticed,felt.

The time slips by and you slide through the days and nights, looking,hoping,wanting to believe that you will find your place. Trying to trust that your dream is just around the corner.That you will make it,wherever you are. That someone will notice and give you a hug.Actually, even if you don't make it;that would be good.

But it may or may not ever come so you keep going,going,going and in some quiet moments of reflection you know ~Home is always where you are. No matter who is there, or not.

Do you wander-wonder too? Do tell.

Neither here nor there

Invisible

Don’t you care?

No-one to miss you no-one to wonder where you are

Solitude is a plane ticket to a place

You are.

Solitude is freedom

Freedom turns empty

Loneliness becomes your soundtrack

'When are you back?' asks an empty home

'When are you back to sit here alone?'

©francesca pelli Tbilisi, Georgia 29 july 2018

Middle of the night musings

It came to me in the middle of the night and I had to get to get it down as soon as I could.I put it here to put it out there. This is after all, where you can read my mind ~ if you want to,of course. I have a fairly good idea of why these words appeared. The rest is up to you. Humour me?

The Cemetery of Dreams

Here they lie at rest eternal

Time cut short their breath and light.

Tomorrow never came

The past clutched tightly

The present was hardly ever enough.

No order chronological of their demise

Dates reminiscent of hope and surrender,

Lives stolen before belief could inhale

As doubt and fear put them to sleep,

Silently,

We wander alongside the beds in the shade

Moments of memory flicker and

light up with the sun ,those

Images of what could have been 

Never were.

Too late to exhume

To ever know why

We buried them here

deep in regret.

Etchings on cold stone remind us forever :

        "Peace that lies in unrest."

                                                              © Francesca Pelli

     Johannesburg, 18 November 2012         

     10.22am

Helter Skelter

"Always the same story. U wanna go home but you don't wanna leave home....."

With five days to go before I fly back from 'home home' to my adopted  Barcelona, something a friend (dear Monica) wrote to me yesterday (in response to what I had said about leaving Joburg and going back to Spain) made me wonder : How can I explain the mixed feelings I have every single time I leave a place I have moulded into, to some extent or other?

I left South Africa twelve years ago.Since then, I have moved to work and live in about eight different countries. Time spans have varied, experiences-some better than others - but they have all, and I mean all, become a part of me. And I, having been part of wherever there,have left a little part of me.

So,how can it not affect me when it's time to say goodbye? To acquaintances made, lessons learnt, people loved,family shared and memories collected in pockets? Where can I put them all?  How can I put into words the madness that goes on in my gut every time it's time to move? It doesn't matter that I'm perfectly happy where I am, or that I'm going to another spot I have chosen, it doesn't matter that I might be there for a month or a year - the knot in my tummy slips,tightens,loops,frays,shivers and pulls.There are moments of ease but as the departure approaches,they certainly diminish.Time seems to overtake itself and there are instants when all I can do is freeze,hoping that it will pause to take a breath and give me a second to work out which way to turn.I start to rebel inside,I get frustrated - it's running out and I find myself mentally slotting people to see into blocks in a visual diary. The thoughts in my head scream around from where I am what I've done how it's been how I feel what I'm doing what there is to do who I've seen who's to see where and when and how to where I'm going what I'll be doing what there'll be to do who there is to see how it will be and how I will be.

Of course it's always fine,of course it all gets done and of course I'm OK. I have,after all, done this so many times I've lost count. Once the bag is packed with its little material tokens of my sojourn, loved ones have been held close and told to take care,once tears of nostalgia have been shed and I step through Passport Control, it's just the next step. On the way back/home/to/ another part of me. (Select as appropriate )

But it still doesn't take away the absolute thrill,anxiety,fear,excitement,joy and sadness of saying goodbye to a hello and the saying hello to a goodbye. Ever.