Rome I

May 11, 2015

In my airy room in St Paul’s Within the Walls. It was built in the 19th century to serve the English speaking expatriot population of Rome and has, in the sanctuary, mosaics by Burne-Jones. Will Bryant met me almost as soon as I arrived, and will take me to lunch in half an hour. The flight was without much incident, except that I landed amidst a knot of aging lesbians– who are indistinguishable in their deportment from teenaged boys– and my ears were doing interesting things as the pressure changed in the cabin. Caught a glimpse of the Alps over the bent heads of the nattering lesbians. It is 7 AM back home.

Roamed Rome a second time at twilight, to the Piazza Venezia and surrounding locations. Drank Bulmers at the Irish bar, very much and ver fast, so that I had to stagger home.

Just before midnight: extreme exhaustion made me lie down before it was quite dark, payment for which is to be up now, padding through the empty upstairs rooms. Wifi is not working, so I’m frustrated in my contact with the world, and with Will who has probably sent me ten invitations I haven’t received or responded to. It’s always something. Rooted around in the very old and specific library and found Walpole’s Anecdotes of Painting, upon which I am counting to put me back to sleep.

Will recounts the loneliness of the priest, who alienates those closest to him in order to serve the more general good. In that it is not much different from the lot of the artist, except that the artist is freed, for the most part, from the burden of being exemplary.  Will’s beloved, he reports, understands this and backs his ambition fully. I was careful never to tax a lover with any expectations, and it still resulted in isolation, so how one wins at this I don’t know.

Sculpture (whimsical little sculptures) by Norman Rockwell’s son dot the rooms. Will says he’s the most difficult person he ever met, a wilful boy of 13 well past 70.

Street vendors are selling this device that is a charging mechanism attached to an antenna, whereby one is meant to understand that one can charge one’s phone without contact with electricity. I made the mistake of looking too long at one, and had this gypsy boy following wherever I went, hounding me as though I were a creditor trying to escape. Finally, seated at my Bulmer’s at the Irish bar across the street, I had to stand up, menace him and say, “I want you to go away now.” He squeaked “OK” and disappeared. I think I would have punched him had he not done so, and I think he knew it. I’m a target for these people because I smile at passers-by, trying to make contact, trying to support the network of souls. Vandal vending cannot be very easy or rewarding work. Maybe the joy when someone forks over a few euro just to make you go away has an intensity I do not understand.