Sunday, March 8, 2015

...the romance of Atrani, upon the Amalfi Coast...a place I've never been...


"Good night, sleep tight
Feels as if I could swim across the ocean
Atrani Grotto
My film star
Playing the lead in my nightly stop motion" - Hooverphonic, Amalfi

Purely in my dreams the other night, as the furthest south I've been in Italy was Rome, I wandered the rock hewn grottoes of the Amalfi Coast.  Why did my mind, in its deepest recesses, bring me here?

There was mystery in the shadows.  The bend and way of the thin streets found myself alone one second and among a throng of other wanderers the next.  She would be ahead of me, then next to me, matter-of-fact, not by play.  There was history here, in these walls.  The sun was bright and dry when I found it, it had to have been summer because the shadows were not cool in those caves.

I searched for what was dreamed.  The words Amalfi came to mind, as they are the foundation of many stories, even recent pop novels.  However, I needed to search further.  This wasn't some glib wandering, but a precise moment, and it gnaws at me.

Atrani, Night
As I searched along the Amalfi Coast of south-western Italy on a map, I came across Positano.  The hew and shape of the rock was close, but Positano is distinctive and apart of what I saw.  The concentric layered city is hard to mistake for any other place.

Then, I found Atrani.  There's what was in the recesses of my mind.  I've chalked such coincidence to the collective unconscious of Carl Jung.  I've never heard of Atrani before, but it is surely a source of fascination now.

It is ancient.  Ruins have dated back to the 1st century, of Roman design.  After raids by barbarians and saracen, Atrani would rebuild several centuries later and can be traced by the Church at 596 AD.

Church of San Salvatore de Birecto
Atrani was a seat of power in the burgeoning Duchy of Amalfi.  It was the ruling class that would reside here,  There ceremonial power was contained in the Church of San Salvatore de Birecto (founded in 940).  The quaint, secluded and somewhat secure town flourished thereafter.

[The doors of the Church were fashioned in Constantinople in 1087.  No doubt, if they are anything like the Baptistery of San Giovanni in Florence, they will be ornate.]

The region is best known for its fish and seafood, its cheeses, and tomatoes.  As it was the source of power over generations, many sweets were founded here, like the o'bocconotto, a sweet pastry that has a casing and filled with a quince, innovative of the time for being able to be eaten in a single bite.  There is my favored drink, limoncello, a lemon liquer derived in the southern area.

The pasta would taste of sea air, again, there are tomatoes, there is citrus.  The bounty of the sea, where harvest are brought in on nightly expeditions in lampare (fishing boats).

There is an obvious beauty here.  There is the air of intrigue.  But why dream it late into Thursday night?  What was to be found?  All I know is that it set my mind swimming all day Friday and I could think of little else.  And, today, I try to solve that mystery...perhaps the Great Mind is bringing me closer to the realization geographically.  There are still mysteries to be solved.  There are the blessed count of endless questions.  I know how I feel about that; some things are better left unanswered, it is only for us to enjoy.
And to you that I may have confused or frustrated in this matter, I can only offer my sincerity and honesty.  Knowing only that it happened, and I struggled to keep it locked away, as so many things that I should.  I will try much harder...you deserve much better than the ravings of a fool.


I'll not lead you by the hand
I'll fight what's forced of my will
I'll not take you to the places that suit me best.
I hope to lead you by the heart, and only if it is where
It wants to be.
Love seeks to make the best of two: unobstructed, unencumbered, unforced.
Acknowledged at the end of a dream, where an unheard whisper followed you
Across the parapets of an undiscovered country, 'My want is yours.'
It matters not we are where
The grass wind-swept in Bavaria
The unsleeping neighborhoods of Tokyo
The sun's light in Atrani, reflected on your raven hair
That would be the adventure
A hand willingly in mine
The gentle play of being one.

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