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I believe in artichokes

Italy did ruin me. After that first trip I came back disgusted by bodega coffee, which now smelled of old socks. Before, it was just fine. I rolled my eyes at red sauce joints, detouring old standbys like a stranger. If eating can be seen as a religious or spiritual experience I had been to the mountain. In time I would return on pilgrimages, always holding the simple pleasures in my thoughts.  An artichoke, methodically fried in good olive oil, with some salt. Black truffles, good butter and fresh pasta twisting around the back of a fork. A very cold and tiny glass of porto bianco sipped in a Genoa bar, with my friend Federico. A man cleaning sardines on a block of wood in the street. A woman selling green figs that she wraps into a newspaper cone. I have thousands of these memories, these artifacts. But I live in Moscow, where there has been an embargo for years now, and there is no population that expects perfect mounds of fresh cheese. They ship powdered palm oil here, that gets …

окна (window)



Comments

Mely said…
For a moment, I was there.
You are quite an artist, no doubt about it!
Love the music, too.

Happy Valentine!!
Rabbit blogger said…
thanks for all of the comments. this took a number of days to produce, as always - a labor of love fit between the daily struggles. a friend and reader asked me if i would ever make a filmic version of the blog, and this is what came out. i may post the parallel story and text for this one, next monday.
1:12 - 1:28 bit is totally awesome, my favorite! Especially the lady that appears - she looks somehow broken to me, really cool.
S Sommer said…
Marco, did you compose and play the music? I love it all. See some new aspect with each viewing. Fascinating.

SS
Rabbit blogger said…
yes, i did write the music - the rule in my studio is to do everything in 1 take. there is a ghost of a harmonica i play in there as well. got to try to keep things restrained....

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