Having turned the lights of the tiny kitchen/ office down low, I accidentally grabbed the demitasse cup nearest me to take a swig when I realised it is full of the multi-faceted pink beads from my broken bracelet and not wine. Jesus said there'd be days like this.
It's Sunday, a day wracked by high winds and furious rain. I love it. I love a storm having been terrified of them as a child growing up in Ohio, sure every greenish sky was a tornado. One house we lived in, I'd take my white Easter-gift- two-sided- zip purse to the ancient basement formerly filed with root vegetables and old-timey appliances and wait. I'd find my family on our vast front porch relishing thunder and lightening. Maybe it was Tennessee where my family moved, I grew to love storms, so much so that one night as torrents of water poured down our street I ran like a headless chicken through our and the accompanying front yards of neighbours, much to my father's dismay. My grandfather happened to be there. Deep, deep disapproval. I did lay down in the gushing water like a waterless fish. Naturally, thirty years later, I can see their point. That night I lay over the air conditioner vent in my bedroom, shamed, cast out for extraordinary behaviour, I slept and dreamt something poisonous crawled into my ear, like King Hamlet.
Normally I really hate rain almost more than snow because I prefer to walk, always. Snow you can walk on, rain screws up the day, and why I could not live in the Northeast of anywhere.
Anyway, this is day two of my reawakening my muse, the little temptress I've shooed away for too long now.
Oh, you thought this blog was about Naples, Italy. It is. I'm in it and writing to you from it.
That's the wine talking. I will not apologise.