Becomming New

A new world. A new paradigm. A man, alone, maybe for the first time. Hark, who goes there? You can write your way out of any box.

Behold. A wrought iron fence above a Venetian canal. The water here is the aquamarine of Eisenhower era bathroom tile and old Buicks. This is a city built upon a million wooden stilts hammered into the Adriatic mud. 119 islands. A refuge from the barbaric hordes. A warren of weathered marble palaces and terra-cotta tunnels. A city of tides. A city of rising and falling waters. A city of periodic floods. A sinking city, a dying city, a fading, crumbling, spectacle ruin. A whore.

A city of men. Muscled and tattooed. Watermen all. Heavers of great bundles, deliverers and takers of goods. The young men of Venice scamper silently as rats in the hours of rats to feed the 21 million their porridge of leather and masks. I am skulking around in her alleyways just to see her naked in the dawn. She is beautiful in that light, beautiful and old, like a scarlet queen. There is something of the lion still left in her loins. I can just make out her wings.

I am a ghost in a city of ghosts. Venice is a ramshackle house, haunted and creaking. The sound of the water lapping against the sides of the boats. A thousand covered wells. A city of bridges. A city of clever contraptions and workarounds. You see the world here. This is the world itself. That is the both the horror and the appeal. Venice is Earth. Earth is Venice. We are sinking.

o O o

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