When I recorded this, the lasting horror of this situation had only just begun to sink it. The atmosphere outside became quieter, but not peaceful. It was bleak, and is still bleak, all the more so now that the weather has turned balmy and bright. Italians should be lounging, half naked, on every patch of grass as far at the eye can see. Bars should be bursting with the first outdoor aperitivos of the year. But instead Milan is empty, too quiet. The singular beauty is that nature feels closer, like it has been freed from a cage of pollution.
The one thing that has not changed is my sense of being split down the middle, being forever too American to be European, but too European to be American. I do revel in this uniqueness, but at what point it uniqueness a beautiful mask for isolation? I’m living through tragedy in a country and culture that I can only vaguely call my own, while my homeland is being ravaged by disease and insanity. I’m not sure if it is better or worse to live this tragedy with the objective eye of distance, or if it would be somehow more comforting to be living it shoulder to shoulder with a culture that has always felt like an ill-fitting jacket. You tell me.
encultura 