Journal, Assignment #1

Journey for a Journal

The leather-bound journals were all over 50 euros – they were quite splendid in their antique appearance. I flipped through the pages of the other decorous journals – flowery imprints, smoothed covers, laced ties – these were the journals that I think of in black-and-white movies where the beautiful debutante keeps her secret thoughts and plays with her take on gossip and love. I was drawn here just as I was drawn to Breakfast at Tiffany’s – for the romanticized and subtle glamour.
I picked up one with lace-trim and a ribbon tie and mused over my first potential words.

Rome is a painting to be explored, a city whose beauty is captured in the bouquets that line the Piazza Navona, the vines that caress the buildings, the sunsets that sink below the flat rooftops…

I paused to laugh at my own pretentiousness. My thoughts were as flowery and imitated as the conjured petal-winged butterflies that flutter on the cover. I laid this down, and instead sprung for one with hand-sewn bindings – a more homely appearance.

Rome is a ruin beneath ruins – fragments of the past scattered about the city – the past caged behind glass windows…

I could have written this while still in Seattle studying architectural slide shows and figures in history texts. I had built up the city – inevitable for a city as infamous and glorified as Rome! – as much as these inflated prices. I would have filled these pages with an idealized manuscript of what I could produce of Rome rather than what Rome has shown me – a specious inspiration that strays from genuine experience. If I had sprung for this glorified task, I would have written vicariously.

I scurried to the office supplies store – 15 minutes before I need to be back in the Piazza del Biscione for another group activity. Not quite sure how many more steps away until I would turn the corner to find the shop doors awaiting me, I quickened my pace. We all began to feel the time ticking faster and some girls slowed in hesitation; one by one they pulled from my flock and turned back. I continued with determination. I was left to judge time by the number of snapshot moments – the last wristwatch returned back to the piazza.

It was certainly not the image of the celebrated journals of famous writers. A notebook, a spirally-bound collection of paper – pigna nature, actually – priced for just three euro. Simple enough that I was not tempted to invent grandeur on its pages; available for my observations, like the covered woman who crouches in the corner right before the shop. She is dressed as if of Mideast descent: her head wrapped in a gauzy wine red sari, her shrunken body draped by loose linen fabric, also a deep hue of red. Her olive skin tanned to the brown of dying leaves after a night of rain. She bowed her head, her forehead scraped the cobblestones, her disheveled hair flowed through the cracks. She was still and silent. I was reminded of ancient Chinese displays of humility and shame, bowing to the ground at the feet of honorable leaders and ancestors. I remembered the ticking seconds on the clock and rushed past her – stopping after a few steps, drawn to show her kindness – but the ticking was growing louder and I blocked her from my mind. Even today I wonder about her story – was she genuine or was she another figure on the Roman canvas?