1.28.13 | Italo Calvino + De Certeau Freewrite
Calvino is an ancient city in the way only cities populated by the wise and artists can ever hope to be. It is a city that has built cemeteries for dead grandmothers' jewelry by hanging it from trees and letting sunshine through to paint the sidewalks shades of ruby, emerald, and gold. It is a city in which poets write on every wall things like “cherries bloom once winter’s gone” and little kids pick the fruit from their neighbor’s trees and let the juices trickle down their chin. It is a city that rests somewhere in everyone’s memory where apricots and summer rain and the first kiss you ever gave are stored away. It is a city of danger where the snake hides behind the boulder or the man on the corner stops you from screaming help.
It is a memory and a living thing, with each person supplying and consuming its energy.
