Jeremiah's Journey - 7: "The Heart of a Writer"

What does the villa of a writer look like? I am living in the region of Tuscany, Italy for the spring season. I, Jeremiah, am on a quest to find what I am searching.

Strewn clothes on the floor of my bedroom. Weeks of the daily news, although Italian, I cannot read, but the pictures tell the story. The plate with remnants of dinner left on the table. Sink filled with dishes crying to be cleaned, crusty afterthoughts of what was left behind. Ashtray of half-burnt cigarettes, a reminder that a writer’s mind is distracted by thought and visions. Cups half-filled with cold coffee, needing a hot, fresh brew. Hats tossed about, which should I wear? My hat displays the ambiance of my mood. Am I a cowboy or an aristocratic gentleman, maybe a Harley biker or a baseball fanatic? Jams; a writer has a selection of jams, and slippers to warm the feet. Unshaven, disheveled, an author does not care. If time stopped, a writer would continue. There is no stopping the fountain of words.

Cats tussle on the porch. Are they no different than people? They live in fluffy peace, licking their fur, bathing in the sun. Cats caress each other, holding themselves together in cuddly love. Then, they tussle and scatter. Control, it’s all about encroaching on one’s space. You’re too close; get away! Come closer; I haven’t seen you in awhile. Are we not like cats?

“Buongiorno amore mio.” Good morning, my love.

Coffee. I need a strong brew of Italian coffee. Lavazza Gran Selezione is my favorite, a dark roast, intense and chocolaty. Hemmingway was like this. He danced back and forth like a pinball. I read his last work, published posthumous, The Garden of Eden. The main character married a girl who cut her hair like that of a boy. She had an affair with a woman that had an affair with him. He wrote of elephants in India or Africa, wherever elephants live. He wrote from dawn to mid-morning and then began his leisurely day with a glass of wine or a cocktail. He never read the literary critics’ reviews. She collected them and read him the good ones. A writer needs encouragement. Opening the heart for others to see what is hidden, vulnerability and honesty, the devil will slay.

What does the heart of a writer look like? Like his villa, a messy place in which to live, he opens the door for the world to see. He has no choice, he has no fences, and he has no care. Whatever hat he is wearing is who he is at the moment. As a singer or a painter, he shows his melody and colors. Words are like chords of music, a palette on which to mix with the brushstroke of a pen. How vulnerable is the musician on stage? Will the audience like her music; will the gallery lookers pause at her paintings?

“Good morning, Adelina.” I was lost in the words of her greeting. We hold closed our hearts in America. Italians freely express themselves. Maybe that’s why they live longer?

“I slept well, and you?”

I have told you, my readers, of my fitful night, waking in the twilight of the moon, no coffee to brew. Words were flowing, the dam could not hold back.

“No.” I was honest. Her heart was open to me, and I have no fences.

“Qual è il tuo cuore, il mio amore?” What is on your heart, my love?

On my heart? She didn’t say “on my mind.” In America, we are focused on the mind; here in the heartland of love and living life without prejudice of thought, Italians are concerned with the heart.

“You.” One word from my heart distilled a paragraph of words.

“I like that.”

Web of love, I am captured within,

Why the hold of your grasp?

When we are without,

Freedom to move,

Now I find a soothing embrace

That will comfort

All that was lost.

Jeremiah's Journey – 7: "The Heart of a Writer”
Copyright © 2016 by Jeff Cambridge

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The series of episodes of Jeremiah’s Journey begin with “Rose Are For Lovers” published on this blog. Follow me on Facebook @ Jeff Cambridge and join the fans of Jeremiah by subscribing to my blog.