The Blue & Yellow Post

Looking through a glass darkly - hardly! Not in this place exquisite light - Venezia.

We are, as the old English writers would put it, on an excursion today: to Murano, famous for Glass making,  the Lido, famous for Byron et al, and the Island of Burano, famous for lace - all aboard the Vaparettos! a water  boat that chugs from station to station up the waterways of Venice. What fun indeed.

We are staying in the suburb of Cannaregio far from the maddening turistos, near the jewish ghetto in a moorish inspired hotel, reminiscent of Shylock and all things shakespearean. Funnily, I’ve learnt more about Italy, during my life, from an English Playwright than from actual travel. Well, that is all changing as one can’t help but be inspired and aroused by this place.

Gab and I are in Venice, Italy. What a place! I thought Croatia was beautiful, but this is like a balm for the spirit.  A fair amount of it is enhanced by a delightful golden liquid called Prosecco (Miss Garner used to drink it in Salley Vicker’s book).

This intoxicant is enhanced by the vistas as well, the bright and variegated colours of the walls, the distresseed brick and rendering, the mossy-water-licked edges, the rotted wood and coloured striped poles that poke up out of the rocking rolling green water, the many boats navigating, bumping, in a dance across the canal ways: hell I can even stand the American tourists!

It is like living inside a painting or an art Gallery. This became especially apparant to me, when I went to the Accademia (Gallery) a day or so ago, and sat before enormous paintings from the 17th Century of the suburb in which I am now living. Why I even recognised the washing hanging from the shuttered windows, in much the same way they are displayed these days. Now that was surreal!

Yesterday we went to Frari the basilica that houses The Annunciation by Titian as well as a Donatello statue and surprise of all - the tomb of Monterverdi (my all time favourite composer of sacred music). Just when you thought you’d seen it all. A few days before we’d seen the graves of Ezra Pound, Serge Diaghilev and Igor Stravinsky at Cimitro, an island cemetery visible from Venezia town.

Well the city beckons, I need to be off to taste some more scampi, some more casa vino Blanco and catch another Vaparetto. Another glass of your finest my good man, line them up.

I read somewhere that colds and flu are a sign of confusion. Well if that’s right - I’m knee deep in confusion, because I can boast the worst cold in a millenium.

What we have here is doubtless a case of psychosomatic illness. As you change your thoughts it reflects in the body.  Your spleen gets damp when you have trouble digesting life, or is that your stomach that gets acidic when you have trouble with your partner? Was the asthma suffocation or was it that my sinusitis was veiled anger? Duh!

I discovered the joys of psychosomatic illness during the neurotic bent of my almost 30s.  I was unable to hold down a satisfying job, and I used the body rather than the CV to explore the boundaries of life.  All was fine in my ill world.  I sniffled my way across every new age book shelf, until at last I could go no farther. My waterloo was a book with the title, “Love your rectum back to health.” Arguably the finest title of all from the mother of all body  illness relativity, Louise Hay. An angel of hope to everyone that had a sneeze, rash or piles. But for me it signalled enough.

I’m happy to say that sort of navel-gazing and rectum loving is all behind me. But the sustaining message I took from the literature is one of personal responsiblity. I was “reared” as a Catholic, which often meant abrogating responsibility. Or at least handballing the lion’s share of it to something called sin, a fall from grace or dodgey advice from a guardian angel. Non- Catholics had no idea that we had a 24-hour 365 days a year counselling life-line (in the shape of a guardian angel.)

The guardian angel was supposed to be good. But there was one religious icon I recall from my early childhood that showed a bad angel talking into one of the saint’s ear, and good angel earbashing the other.  What a conundrum. The secret was to rely on your inbuilt conscience. Truly an elusive component - especially for little kids, who had their work cut out for them managing anything under this 24/7 surveillance.

Angels and colds are, I admit, hardly parallel realities. But, lately my thinking has been preoccupied with both. Perhaps it’s because I just finished a charming book, Miss Garnett’s Angel, by Salley Vickers. In any event, I’m head over heels back in love with the idea of visitations from winged dudes to help you over tricky times.  But then again, my thinking is cloudy with the infected cavities of my head and maybe illness is an essential criteria for seeing them.

My darling bloke saw angels coming out of the walls in our bedroom - as he lay dying. One of them had long hair with body paint, and he danced “between us”, Stephen told me. Those that know Stephen (aka bloke), would know such an image would be most unlikely if he were in good health.  Clearly another great mystery about transition.

Garnett’s book also included a reference to the bridge of separation, over which a soul must travel when they die, assisted of course by an angel. Stephen, in one of the morphia-ridden rambles that characterised those precious last days, also mentioned a bridge. He told me he “was building a bridge between heaven and earth”.

So, Holmes, Hays or Vickers - what next? Is the bridge accessible to me too? Can I get over it? Will I ever get over it? Apparantly that’s the task of those left behind. A chilling idea indeed. No wonder I’m sniffling.