smiling to myself at you

I wish I had a camera hidden in my eyes. I could half-blink to focus, blink all the way to take.

I could try a camera, but if I have it then I don't have it ready and if I do have it ready my shot's always half-a-hair too late. Besides, it's the people I want pictures of, and even if it weren't rude to randomly go around taking people's pictures, people change when you point a camera at them.

What I want is that moment in the rose garden. The three women with their backs to me, looking in the shop window, the one on the right with yellow pants. The old man right after them, plaid confusion between his pants and hat and dog. The Japanese girl sitting on the floor against the green wall, hair falling over her shoulders and eyes closing as the language all starts to run together in her ears.

But I don't have a camera in my eyelids, so I must just enjoy the beauty as it goes.

I went to bed too late four nights ago. The pubs had emptied out and the street was still, but I could hear a TV. I listened, thinking it sounded like English. That used to happen to me a lot-- I think my brain was doing oral recognition exercises, trying to convert the Italian into something it could understand. My hopes would rise, only to be dashed against the reality of my lingual mirage.

I got up and went to the window. I couldn't tell where it was coming from, but it was English--an NBA game. And I know I wouldn't have dreamed NBA. I leaned out the shutters and listened to the whistles and announcers and fans, then smiled and went back to bed.

I went to a bookstore again today, looking for new textbooks. And although 99% of the people inside were Italian, and 95% of the books, I was shocked when I came out to find myself on a street in Italy. Books do that to me. So does music. I was playing the keyboard at church once, and when someone asked me a question, and I responded, it took me a moment to realize I had answered in English.

I think it just goes to show that nonostante il fatto che posso parlare e leggere ed anche pensare tutto il giorno in italiano senza problema, my heart still beats in English. Anytime I feel something, love or sadness or anger or joy, I lose all sense of second language.

I always knew there was a language deeper than thought--but I don't think I realized how deeply it is connected with language. So that language means not only a means of communication, but of feeling. And maybe this is why it's so important to write. Because it's the closest thing I can come to what I'm trying to feel.