PART ONE: Among the Cloud Dwellers
Firenze, Italia. Galleria degli Uffizi.
The echo of the security guard's footsteps slowly faded toward the distant museum exit.
Silence.
Silence echoed along the austere arcades on the first floor. Sunset filtered through the ancient windows, the sunrays interrupted in their paths by massive walls. Golden light ricocheted and dispersed off myriads of confused dust motes. At the end of the high-windowed galleria, the heartbeat began to pound within the chilled white marble of Michelangelo's Davide. Life's essence stirred through his perfectly chiseled body until strength and heat gave him power to move. He slipped from his pedestal and headed toward Venere in Botticelli's room.
From the darkening sky, a full moon replaced eternity and cast an inquisitive look down. Davide's shadow glided undisturbed amongst dozing masterpieces. On the upper level, beneath gilded ceilings, silence reigned.
Venere stepped out of her golden frame, and leaving her seashell behind, she entered reality. The angels' gazes followed her progress while her ancella gently smiled and wiped a lonesome tear.
Still wet from the scented sea mist, Venere's long auburn hair trailed, barely covering her glowing body. Desire stirred deep within her soul, conjuring rhythmic waves within her.
She met Davide on a sunset-lit windowsill. Doubts dissipated, washed away by the high tide of her will. The lovers allowed the salt-scented mist to subdue them, slowly, to unfold erotic dreams.
Please let reality be what fantasy was.
As the sun's light faded away she drew him in, savoring primitive rituals, riding the moist rhythm of the waves to slowly drown their thirst. With the moon silently smiling, they reached for the sky and left agony behind.
That was the night my parents gave me life.
This life.
If I were a color, I would be gold. Born under the blessing of the full moon, protected by ageless winged guardians, I played hopscotch with Giotto on checkered floors and hide-and-seek with masterpieces along marble staircases, among their golden frames and moth-dappled velvet drapes. My tiny hands pressed against rain-streaked windows while outside the river Arno swelled and found its way to the sea.
I grew up by the shadow of the leaning tower of Pisa. And although the colors of Tuscany in August blush my skin, it is the Manouche mystery that pounds through my veins. I know the woods where Dante lost his way like the palm of my hand. I could escort you to the inferno door blindfolded, for I have knocked on it often myself. I crossed the Mississippi River and heard Jesse James ask Huckleberry Finn if he was real.
I swam with dolphins in the Gulf of Mexico and danced with the Queen of New Orleans on a wet, humid winter night. I got drunk with Ezili in Savannah and cursed life, screaming at the moon in rage. I wandered in meadows restlessly and watched the winds with a longing I could not understand.
Absolutely still in a Veronica, I held a crimson cape of fears, enticed a crippled wolf to charge, and defied time.
I challenged the Goddess, belied my powers, and regretted it all. I soared with a majestic eagle toward a sinking sun and caught up to it by Ayers Rock where, anguished, I bowed. Subjugated at last, I embraced magic.
Too wild, too strong to be mortal, I wove a dream with love in my heart, passion in my soul, and the breath of my life.
I have summoned the elements, conjured my yearning into a spell to be taken away across the endless sky. I have swallowed my pride and begged the gods to give me proof that life is worth the fight. Now I walk through sorrow barefoot, careful not to step on the sharp, shattered pieces of my broken dream.
Now I lie still, numb and spent, waiting.
