Sunday, September 30, 2007

An Unfinished Adventure.

I cannot say why I chose to leave the cool interior of the Rome Center, to vanish among the camera-decked pilgrim hordes that are the only humans disparate enough to travel the streets in 109 degrees. Perhaps I craved another sip of the total alienation that one can only feel among the tourist throng of the international city. Or it may be that I had hoped to breakthrough the crowd just to see that there was an Italy on the other side which might not be so very different from the town where I grew up.

For one who grew and matured among the shaded cedar roots in the forest, the ponds swarming with tadpoles and dragonflies, the labyrinth of blind streets and graffiti strewn walls of Rome can feel inhospitable. Leaving the Campo de' Fiori I watched pack upon pack of khakied and handkerchief-bedecked tourists racing after the floating red flag in the crowd. Where are the stinging bees and the maggots that feed off of the tourist's sweat I wondered, remembering the poet's description of Limbo. If I had not known that Dante loved his city of Florence, I would be sure that he had modeled "Inferno" after the summer crowds of the large cities of Italy, the sea of flesh, undulating to allow horses to pass through, the steaming cobblestones after a short shower.

But there was no steam for it had not rained in many days. Drinking from one of Rome's many fountains I reflected on the ingenuity that synced flow of water to the flow of humans, and much later the flow of electricity. Rome is a city of flow, a million tubes linking reservoirs. I flowed through the smaller streets, moving quickly, just as a moving liquid's velocity increases when the diameter of its pipe decreases. In this way I flew through the Jewish Ghetto. There was much to see, but on this day I wished for speed above all else. Even as I walked, the lush fountains of inner courtyards passed silently, their gates open and beckoning.

In Rome humans flow, water flows, and for me as I traveled, ideas flowed. In this city images and objects are so bedecked in meaning as to be near collapse. Take the Pantheon which I could not see but I knew existed somewhere to the North, overgrown in a forest of buildings. It is a pagan temple and much of its structure has meaning in that. It is also a Christian church, and now a tourist destination, the weight of so many associations is overbearing.

As I walked down past the Forum, I drew near the Colosseum. Here the unnaturally red tourist foodcarts vended their four euro water bottles. Here gladiators with bright white t-shirts and cell phones, muscled like centaurs, harassed the oily bodies in damp Tommy Bahama shirts as they waded through the pools of asphalt that surround the Colosseum. One misses the quiet streets. In the center I saw rising above me the Colossus himself, that structure that has been the father and patron of so much pain and pleasure. At this navel, the dislocation of travel reaches its apex. I walked on to sling shot off its circumference climbing up a gentle slope. If it was the alienation of endless tourism that I wanted, this certainly filled me completely. The sun was now in the West and I begin to climb.

I entered the square of the Quirnale. Here there was a teasing breeze and for the first time since the journey's beginning, I found myself alone in an open space with only the melancholy and lost obelisk to see me and my shadow. Of its many wonders, the Piazza highlights and enhances shadows, spreading them out on the stones, black butcher-paper cut-outs. The air is lighter up here.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

The View from the Well (Creative Writing Assignment #18)

Note: Again, the quote below is purely the creation of the author.

“You must go forward. You cannot linger here. This place is a process. Down and rise again. Descend and ascend. This is the eternal and infinite recurrence.”

- Puteus Condus, “A Treatise on the Metaphysical Functions of Wells and Other Subterranean Shafts”

With some minor approximations one can deconstruct the well into two fundamental geometrical entities. The first is the cylinder, oriented such that the plane of its diameter is orthogonal to any line projected from the Earth’s center of mass.

I have come to the first opening onto the well shaft; it is only a few meters below the top. At this window the air is still thick and hot. It spills over the edges above, cascading down past me into the dim void. I cannot see this, but pushing my head out I can feel the heat spiraling and splashing in its descent. Above are the sounds of sparrows and I imagine them, their beaks open trying to expel the late-afternoon heat. I am still connected to the world here. When I look downward I see a million scintillating motes of Italian dust caught in the descending ray of light. Beyond is an indistinct pool. There is still a veil of unreality that separates me from it. I would not be surprised if suddenly the pool was revealed to be only an ingenious optical illusion. In the shaft the lines of the stones all lead downwards, drawing the eye to the watery vortex.

The second component is the set of double helix stairs that coil around the descending cylinder. Each helix makes six full rotations from the surface to the water. The stairs and cylindrical well shaft meet at windows.

The third opening and the light has changed. Or is it my eyes that have changed? This place is a process. Here the air is lighter; the summer humors that float above cannot weigh down this place. The warm tendrils of the sun snake their way down the stones to touch this point. I glance above and see that the sky has become deeper and clearer. The water below is an iridescent blue that mirrors the brilliant sky. These are two realities and I am in between them. Leaning against these cool stones, halfway between water and sky one can almost feel at ease. At this moment I could choose to return to the feverish Italian afternoon, or I could continue my descent toward the phosphorescent liquid that stares upward toward me, a pale eye. At this point nothing is certain. There is a freedom here where I can see simultaneously see into two worlds.

At the side of the shaft that extends into the Earth, the two helices meet on a bridge that bisects the diameter of the shaft and stands a meter above the water. Here, he who journeyed down may, without ever doubling back, ascend again to the world again.

I walk to the center of the brittle bridge that crosses the bottom of the well. The air has become thick again, but this time is saturated with the damp of ancient stone. This place is not cold. But it is absent of heat. The water below my feet is luminous, as if its purity itself was enough to give it light. It gladly reveals the sandy bottom several meters down. Looking up I see a sky purer than any other I have seen. I once believed that to see the ideal through the crude imperfections of reality I had to reach a point infinitely close to that entity. The cracked mirror when viewed closely enough reveals only endless repetition of the elegant and incorruptible atom. Looking up at the sky now though, I wonder if the opposite might be true as well. Perhaps one can also use complete isolation to see through to the perfection in everything. Here at the bottom the lines of the stone all lead upwards. I must go forward. I cannot linger here.

The Discomfort of Pilgrimages (Creative Writing Assignment #23)

Note: The following quotes are all the creation of the author, and do not actually refer to any real document.


“It is said that after seven years of trials St. Abbo reached the foot of the mountain upon which Yehsalva the Elder had been crucified. Before he ascended, he knelt to give prayer and thank God for his safe passage. As he bent forward an asp emerged from a hollow in the earth and struck him in his ankle. Lying prostrate on the ground, St. Abbo was visited by an angel of the LORD who offered to give him the strength to climb the mountain and finish his pilgrimage.

“’This final trial is far too simple’, he replied. ‘My pilgrimage was to this asp. It was for him and every previous calamity that I first ventured forth. You of all should know that it was from the foot of this mountain that I began.’”

- Tykelmenos of Crete
The Book of One Thousand Steps


I am in the Basilica of St. Peter’s. Above me gold crowds the opulent vault, trailing down the pillars toward the voluminous eyes of the pilgrims and tourists. I watch them come around the corner and through the door. Their cameras are already blazing like automatic rifles. This is one of the world’s navels of spirituality and yet I feel a bitter anger when I am elbowed in the small of my back by an old woman with furiously red lipstick, or when the German tour guide leads her duckling tourists to the exact spot I have fought so hard to maintain. The ridiculousness of my anger provokes me to even greater anger. “Not now, not here,” I plead with myself.

A pilgrim is a person who battles against his own wrath. He lures it out with the trials of the journey, then he slays it.

* * *

“Let misfortune be as a friend to you. Through misfortune a pilgrimage is born.”

- Askinof Jerimiahikov
“Following the Saints: A Guide to the Perplexed”


As the train drew into the station we looked up from books and sleep to see that the clouds, our constants companions, had finally made good upon their promise. Even now the tree branches were sagging under the weight of the rain. We looked at each other: the bare arms and legs, progeny of the Italian sun. No one had anything besides a light cardigan. Tentatively hands reached for bags. With a gasp the doors opened and the smell of wet leaves gushed in. We stood watching droplets cascading down the doorframe.

A voice behind said sarcastically, “Well, at least we will remember this”.

The pilgrim is a person who remembers through discomfort.

* * *

“When the Metropolitan of Novgorod toured Rezin he was shown a man who proclaimed himself to be a hermit. The Metropolitan looked upon the man and spoke.

“’But brother, a hermit lives apart from humanity in the wilderness. You live in a mighty city.’

“’ Yet is there any other place that can cause greater loneliness than the mighty city?”’

- Grom the Scribbler
Chronicles of the Metropolitans


It is Notte Bianca and I cannot move. One arm is tightly pressed against my stomach, the other is held up in a contortion that I never thought my tendons capable of. I stand on the stairs to the Capitoline Hill. What I am waiting for in this line I do not know. I cannot ever remember being so close to so many people. The man next to me is smoking a cigarette, but I might as well have been smoking it since our faces were only inches apart. I have never been so close to so many people, but I have also never felt loneliness like this. Here in this crowd among the dozen languages that are being spoken I cannot understand anything, here among all these people who have never seen me and will never see me again.

The pilgrim is a person who is isolated when others surround him. The pilgrim is most alone when he is with his own kind.

* * *

“We spent the night under a bridge to escape the rain. Near dawn we awoke to find the swollen river rushing past our legs. I had never before felt such fear. Why didn’t I have Adel teach me how to swim?”

- John of Salingary
The Search for Telimare


When we exited the bus my throat was raw, my cold was gaining ground inside of me. I searched the exterior of the silent city for a fountain. Soon my search was rewarded when coming around a corner I heard the gurgle of water greeting water, that jovial conversation that so many of the fountains in Rome celebrate. Bracing one of my hands against the side of the fountain I leaned forward and allowed the water to flow through my mouth. The tendrils of cold wove their way into my skull and face. I then drank greedily. After I was finished one of my companions pointed to a sign beside the fountain. “Non potable. Do not drink water!”


In a silent city,
Water is laughing constantly,
It has a secret

The pilgrim is someone who chooses poorly. A pilgrimage follows the wrong answers and ends at the correct one.

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

A History of Trouble (Creative Writing Assignment #20)

At times it is difficult for me to travel. You might read this and draw images of a figure of a fragile disposition, a lethargic nature, or an anxious temper. Do I fear airplanes, pickpockets, terrorists, or the horrific countenance that might constitute foreign cuisine? It is altogether less interesting than that, though perhaps you will still fail to believe me. It is this quandary that has led me to finally claim my word as PARALLEL.

When traveling, especially in Rome, you can see all sorts of people. There are the hordes of red-faced, animatronic tourists, trudging mindlessly forward, dominated by their headsets. Moving among these is that class of people that sustains itself through the generous tourist. The hawkish vendors of knock-off purses, the ubiquitous statue men in their latest unpersuasive wrapping of sheets be it a gold painted Tutankhamen or a spray painted Roman orator, and of course the many beggars of all imaginable forms. One can even sometimes spot the endangered species, the Roman. So many people. And with this phantasmagoria of faces and bodies, within this cacophony of clucking, whining, barking, grunting, sighing, and screaming, there are weaving around me so many stories. There are probably more stories, memories, and impressions walking about St. Peter’s on a Saturday afternoon than could fill the Vatican library.

This overwhelms and troubles me. I walk through the Camp di Fiori and pass a man selling flashing heart pins. Did he know that he would one day be doing this? Does he sit late at night, counting his earnings and think back to the first time he learned to swim in that now remote amber river? Do his sore legs again remember the sensation of being able to thrash about, free for once of soil and stone? What of the silent Japanese woman that sits alone in the Pantheon early on a Thursday morning. Why has she come to Rome? When did she first leave the city that she was born in? Does she remember the excitement at seeing the ocean for the first time, the horizon so keen that your eyes might slip over the edge? I can never know these things.

So my word is more a hope than a reality. I hope that all these lives actually run PARALLEL. That by living my life, I have in some way lived the lives of all this flesh that swarms through the streets of Rome. It is a selfish hope. Like the man who burns a book simply because he knows that he is incapable of finishing it. But what an ease it would be on the traveler. To be able to walk down a dim street in Trastevere, see an old man sitting without a shirt, mending a dilapidated bicycle and be able to confidently think, “What an interesting sight, but I know that what this man has felt I have felt as well. His life has just been a variation upon mine just as mine has been a variation upon that of the gaudy woman that is walking toward me”.

PARALLEL. Probably just an illusion. Nevertheless I continue to meander on through Rome, passing countless eyes, but perhaps only one continuous story.

The Pantheon in Four Colors (Creative Writing Assignment #10)

8:37 am

Eleven. This was the number of people that stood in the Pantheon. They orbited, sliding about the circumference. The vast floor remained empty. A janitor stood trying to tell a joke to a Japanese woman who had been sitting alone on a bench. A young couple meandered along, pointing and whispering to each other. These individual personalities will be absorbed and obliterated in the swell of photomongers when noon arrives.

The Pantheon was at its most powerful then. I could hear each of my steps ricocheting off the walls to eventually pass up through the oculus and outward into the Roman morning. Without the crowds and noise, the dome seemed to recede upwards as if the weight of all those pounding shoes during the afternoon had been holding it down. As I looked up at the dome I saw that the shading on the coffering gave the impression that the oculus was growing. That the dome was dilating to allow the sun in. I imagined the immense Pantheon as a flower, the oculus opening in the morning with the first rays of the sun.

In the morning I believed that I was in a Christian church. The crosses, the wooden carving of a crucified Christ, the frescos of the Annunciation, they were all visible. A narrow beam of light had only recently begun to crawl down the coffering, but the sacred language of church was already visible.

A pigeon suddenly darted above my head, soaring upward to a niche at the base of the dome. I saw this as a particularly Roman omen to leave.

The color that dominated the Pantheon in the morning was yellow.


2:10 pm

In the afternoon the Pantheon is a dark place. As I cross the threshold I have a fleeting fear that the darkness will not recede, that the Pantheon has been transformed into another dim cave, cloaking its exquisite vastness in obscurity. But then I see the sun-stain that terminates that vast and yet ethereal pillar of light. Through this column a million dust motes, citizens of Rome school, climbing hot currents upward. It seems like it might be made of some other medium than atmosphere. That one might be able to swim upward through the thick sunlight. The dust motes become tiny bubbles.

The hordes have come and now their cameras blaze. Are they afraid that their memories are weaker than their external hardrives? In the blurry confusion of echoes I cannot hear my footsteps any longer. Somewhere in the dim crowd a child is testing the strength of his shrill voice. That echo I do hear.

In the afternoon I believe that I am in a pagan temple. The same light that illuminated a circle of stone has seemed to suck the light out of the rest of the Pantheon. The Christian symbols have been veiled in shadows. The gloom the golden altar wall has turned to the color of urine. The wooden Christ that had previously drawn my attention now has taken on a new meaning with the change of light. Shadows have slid down from the arch above him enshrouding his bent head. He has gone from triumphant victory to forgotten martyr. Jupiter has taken the day shift.

The color that dominates the Pantheon in the afternoon is purple, like the dried blood of the sacrifices that once happened here.


7:17 pm

It will be the first time during the day that the Pantheon seems just as bright inside as the sky is outside. Soft, yellow lights will be switched on above the niches. The dome will be dark now except for a faint ring of light around the oculus. The tourists will be beginning to thin, they will move faster, shuffling in, pointing their weapons, snapping, and then shuffling out again. I will look to the coffering and see that opposed to this morning it will look as if the dome is contracting, as if the oculus is shrinking. The flower will close for the night.

With the help of the luminous bulbs, Christianity will take back the Pantheon. The wooden Christ again hangs triumphant, gloriously enthroned in artificial illumination. I will be able to see his bent head and know his sacrifice. The gold of the altar wall will shimmer again as I walk from one side to the other.

The colors that will dominate the Pantheon in the evening are blue and gold.

A Journey into the Crypt of S. Maria Concezione (Creative Writing Assignment #4)

Emerging from the threshold we are again in Rome. Cars and buses slide past in the mild morning air. Down on the steps below a gypsy woman with a sleeping infant begs for coins. A group of muttering tourists pick their way along the sidewalk. These are the objects of every Roman day, they are comforting in their ubiquity. But the paint has begun to flake on the images before us, just as it has from the massive green doors that stand as sentinels on so many Roman streets. Already looking at the gypsy woman we can see something that we had not noticed before. Below the skin, beyond in time. Our eyes will not show us this future, this continuity. But after the crypt we know that the eyes hide and distort a great deal.

Hallucination differs from other types of vision in that it is necessarily a product of the mind. It is a trick that one plays upon oneself unconsciously. In the crypt of Santa Maria della Concezione there are no hallucinations. Could our minds have dreamt up these contortions of the senses? Like the vertebrae that swirl about its ceiling, this place has a way of twisting around and through every expectation. We walk forward and back while chandeliers of tailbones hover above our heads. We observe the piles of femur bones stacked meticulously. On the walls ribs sprout into blotched ivory flowers, walls of skulls play with the light to create delicate patterns. The dried monks continue to penitently pray as they have for so many years now, their brittle-skinned hands wired tightly together.

Here there are no hallucinations for there are only two elements whose existence is undeniable: death and beauty. This space is a crypt but it might also be a temple to the two essential qualities of life. The medieval mind would have approved of this place. We may try to believe that these countless fragments of so many humans are only a hallucination, but what they say to us cannot be called hallucination for both will eventually assert themselves onto us. When we see the frail skeleton of the Princess, holding her bone hourglass, we see a matrix of calcium deposits, but we also see through to death and beauty.

The monks who made this place made it as a “memory palace” of the simplest sort. There are only two memories that this subterranean complex preserves. They are present in the tailbones that weave their way across the ceiling, in the distorted and hollow faces of men who knew that eventually they would contribute the fabric of their existence to creating a memory for someone else. Here we are, surrounded by the dead, imposed on by the dead.

This place cannot be left to words. The word “human bone” is so common and the experience so rare that the word and object no longer mean the same thing. We read “bone” and picture a Halloween decoration, we see a cross formed from finger bones and we experience something very different. The monks must have known this, known that when we left the crypt, we would be able to see, if only for a short time, the death and beauty in the outside world.

Leaving the crypt feels like returning to a hallucination. The gypsy woman’s infant has woken and is crying. The cars and buses slide past, dragging with them the cares of the day. Yet if we are careful we may be able to sway to one side of this mixture of hallucination and reality, to see what the medieval mind could have seen, to see what it already knew existed beyond the sight of our everyday eyes.

Light, Movement, and the Story in a Statue (Creative Writing Assignment #17)

Pauline Bonaparte reclines on her mattress, a cloth is loosely wrapped about her waist. In one hand she delicately holds an apple, suspended in front of her shapely thighs. Her other hand rests in her hair. This arm does not show enough strain to be truly holding her head; it is merely a pose. Her face supports this sense of confidence. Her eyes wander off beyond us. She feigns disinterested in her observers. But the viewer knows that vainly she wishes for them to look upon her exposed form. However, in the morning light the sculpture is bare, there is an overabundance of smooth marble. Her form lacks the shadows and crevices that animate other sculptures. One wanders on in the museum, craving the energy of something different. The story here is too simple. One almost feels sorry for this sculpture that seems proud without reason. How would a mere candle change the work?

In the light of the candle that sits before her stomach, Pauline’s form takes on new shapes. Shadows intensify the voluptuousness of her supple breasts. The apple gleams, the candlelight being intensified into a single point that draws us toward the bed. She is now a temptation. Looking at her body one notices how the light has accentuated the wrinkles on the mattress caused by her fleshy, corporeal body. But it is when one returns to Pauline’s face that the story begins. The viewer realizes that they are watching Pauline as she waits for Camillo. She plays with her apple idly, dipping it toward the open flame. Gazing beyond us out the cracked door she listens for the sounds of foots on the steps. She does not look toward the viewer, but it is no longer out of pride. She has forgotten that she is being watched. This has become a private view in an intimate night setting. The viewer has been transformed into the voyeur and is hidden in the darkness.

A breeze catches the flame, scattering the shadows on Pauline’s body and giving the illusion of motion. Has a door been opened somewhere? She appears to have shifted her weight in expectation, trying to catch the sound. Perhaps she has heard the clip of boots on marble or the echo of a servant’s voice, welcoming the returning master. The sculpture has grown in complexity. The viewer now must hesitate before moving on.

In another room, out of the candlelight stands Bernini’s David. The viewer approaches it from behind and immediately and without any change of light we are drawn into a story. This story begins, as many do, with a question. What is this figure doing? We see him bent over some task. The muscles of his back seem taut. His skeleton is visible, stretching the marble as if beneath it there were smooth titanium vertebrae and ribs. Splaying his legs we can tell that he is preparing himself for some change in momentum. A sudden action is imminent.

As the viewer walks around the statue clockwise the story progresses. The viewer sees that David holds some sort of stone with rope wrapped around it. As his left arm becomes visible, it reveals enlarged veins. The gleam of marble here becomes the gleam of perspiration. The profile of a rutty face appears, but this is no surprise for it seems an inevitable outgrowth of the tense, straining body. Armor and a harp have fallen to his feet. This must mark a final commitment to his present action. Now the viewer is determined to see what David has been preparing.

Finally the device’s purpose is revealed, it is a slingshot. With the observer’s final rotation, David’s body begins to shift its weight. He is in the act of winding the up for a triumphant fling. The climax arrives when the face becomes fully visible. Now David bites his lips with the strain of the slingshot. All energy is now directed into his arms. And then it ends. There is no conclusion.

Monday, September 17, 2007

Interviewing Umberto Eco (Creative Writing Assignment #20)

Note: This assignment required that we translate a piece of writing from Italian based solely upon what English words the Italian words resembled. The less Italian we knew, the better. For example "Notte Bianca" (White Night in English), might be translated as "Bank Note". The following then is a "translation" of an interview with the writer Umberto Eco.


Bologna, come and ornament my traditions,
Auspicious will be the day of these major formations,
It will occupy the editorials and the multimedia presentations.

On an Alabaman Interstate Umberto Eco gorged,
Dreaming of airplanes to the third degree,
And the master of all directions.

Q: College telephones sit with ill Professor Umberto Eco. Is he the master of all directions in multimedia? Is he the master of all directions in the editorial cartoons? Scuttle with superiority, study these questions and omens.

A: Oh gee, it’s an advantage with a due cost. The first of the conclusions involved tears that circled from you to the diplomat. They dropped at intervals, initially in one form and then another. It was a lesson in four cycles. Simultaneously I arrived with a quest for four tornados, a quest to be the master. I am an altruistic master in editorials. In Italian, snows total another year. I will quest for the unicorn enough. OK, it was a windy impregnation which raged with a frequency that obliged me to quote the Indian with a due cost.

Q: There is a semblance to this same situation in Italian. You see it in a movement that is incorruptible. Someone is diverse when campaigning for death, for a quantity of regulation to the letter, but editorials, they are like alimony, which is the fat of numbers. There is a semblance to a Molotov vitamin.

A: Inane and doodle! The campaign for death, a sullen letter for my fans. Temperance is a poor story. Is there taro in Italy? If trunks never classified their fat or their past economic luck, a position based on quantity would regulate the numbers of freedom.

Sunday, September 16, 2007

The Obelisks of Rome

Introduction

The mythology of the Egyptians tells us that the god of life and death, Osiris, was murdered by his brother Seth, only to rise and again walk in the world. Such a narrative could very well be applied to the obelisks of Rome. Trophies of the Empire fall only to be resurrected by the “second emperors of Rome”, the popes. Simple though they seem the obelisks have both a complex history and a subtle plan behind their placement. Throughout the history of Rome they have been associated with various forms of social and political power. Through an understanding of obelisks one can gain a better understanding of the city in which they stand.



History

The Egyptians were the first culture to practice the craft of obelisk carving and to this day the finest and most beautiful obelisks are still of their ancient making. In fact, many of the obelisks were already aged when they were taken to Rome. Many had also already been reused by numerous pharaohs. The Egyptians placed their obelisks as pairs at the entrance to temples and sacred burial locations, unlike the Romans who generally erected them as solitary monuments in circuses. Most sources agree that the obelisks were connected to the sun worship. To this end their pyramidions may have been covered in gold. Such ornamentation would create the illusion from a distance and in direct sunlight that the obelisk was emitting light. Pliny claims that the obelisk represented the ray from the sun and that they served as thrones for the sun god Aten. Accurate or not, these ideas were held by the Romans and the Romans erected their stolen obelisks with them in mind.

The Romans first began to acquire obelisks when Augustus defeated Mark Antony and Cleopatra, and the Empire gained control of Egypt in 30 BC. To celebrate his triumph, Augustus brought the first obelisk back to Rome. This set the tone for all subsequent obelisk use in Rome. After this Roman emperors would continue to move obelisks to their capital city. Augustus later had several obelisks transported using massive boats that employed up to three hundred rowers. While they were never able to carve obelisks as well as the Egyptians, the Roman engineers had several advantages over the Egyptians in their transportation. They had at their disposal the compound pulley as well as ample timber. The Egyptians on the other hand had worked primarily with stone. The Romans though were not content only with the obelisks that had already been made, but also sculpted their own in both Alexandria and Rome. They even went so far as to carve fake hieroglyphics in some of their creations. After Augustus, Caligula, Diocletian, Domitian, and Hadrian all erected obelisks in Rome.

With the decline of Rome and the onset of the Middle Ages the obelisks again became ruins. They fell one by one until only the Vatican obelisk remained standing. Some were broken into several pieces during the many sackings of Rome. Through the periodical flooding of the Tiber some obelisks were completely buried under sediment. They would remain hidden or ignored until the popes began to turn an eye to them. The first of these re-erections came from the one of the most ambitious of the Counter-Reformation popes, Sixtus V (Felice Peretti, 1585-90). Sixtus V commissioned the genius engineer and architect Domenico Fontana to relocate the Vatican obelisk to the front of St. Peter’s. This undertaking was a landmark in the history of engineering, requiring the sum of contemporary mechanical science. After his success with the Vatican obelisk, Domenico Fontana went on to find and erect four more fallen obelisks for Sixtus. These include the obelisk in the Piazza dell'Esquilino, the Piazza del Popolo, the Piazza S. Maria Maggiore, and the Piazza S. Giovanni in Laterano. While several Popes such as Innocent X and Alexander VII followed Sixtus in erecting obelisks during their pontificates (the Piazza Navona obelisk and the Piazza della Minerva respectively), the second greatest of the “megolithomaniacs” was Pius VI. He had Giovanni Antinori re-erect the second obelisk that had stood before the Mausoleum of August, the first having been erected in the Piazza dell’Esquilino. Like Sixtus V, Pius VI went on to erect two more obelisks, again through the skill of Antinori. These were the Trinità dei Monti obelisk and the Montecitorio obelisk. Many other Western cities have followed the lead of Rome and now obelisks can be found in Paris, Constantinople, London, and New York.

Definition and Variation

With the popularity of obelisks has come a host of obelisk imitations. A true obelisk has a square, tapering shaft. At its top is a pyramidion that has a taper of sixty degrees. A true obelisk is also carved from a single piece of stone. The Egyptians used red granite and this was the preferred stone of the Romans as well. Obelisks generally sit upon some sort of base that raises it some distance above the ground. Obelisks have been presented in different ways at different times during their history. In the Baroque period obelisks were usually accompanied with a multimedia presentation of sculptures or fountains. Before this (such as the obelisks erected by Sixtus V), obelisks usually stood alone in an open space. The obelisks stolen from Egypt usually have hieroglyphic inscriptions on them. One cannot necessarily identify an Egyptian origin by this though because some of the obelisks made in Rome are inscribed with either genuine hieroglyphics or imitation symbols. These essential qualities above mark all the true obelisks that stand in Rome.

Some obelisks have had special features or ornamentation that set them apart. In Imperial Rome obelisks were sometimes oriented such that they acted as giant sundials. Augustus used an obelisk for such a purpose in the Campus Martius where he had the points that the pinnacle of the obelisk’s shadow touched at noon on the winter and summer solstice marked. To better define this tip, a globe was set at the top of the pyramidion. However, the weight of the obelisk caused it to sink into the earth, distorting the calculations and terminating its time marking capabilities. When one of these sundial obelisks was re-erected by Sixtus V, he removed the golden globe, which by that time was rumored to contain the ashes of Caesar. The major obelisks that now stand in Rome are also adorned with bronze ornamentation. This often includes symbols from the reigning pope’s arms. For example, at the top of the Piazza Navona obelisk sits a dove, the symbol for Innocent X, the Pope that re-erected this particular obelisk. Another important addition made to many of the obelisks by the popes of the Counter-reformation was a cross. Since the basic shape of the obelisk is so normalized, it is often only with their ornamentation that we can easily decipher their latest political agenda.



Function

Like any other monument, obelisks generally serve multiple functions simultaneously. Except as sundials, these functions are rarely practical and indeed nearly always involve the delivery of a message from the erector. For this reason the function of obelisks and the goals of their patron will be discusses together since they are in a sense inseparable. The function was to deliver the particular message, this was also the goal of the structure. All of this is further complicated by the fact that these multiple functions have shifted over time. In fact, the obelisks are interesting in their ability to absorb new intentions without having their structure significantly changed. Furthermore, different groups of people would understand the obelisk upon different levels. Regardless of specifics though, the underlying function of obelisks has always been to assert the political and social power of the current power holders.

When the obelisks were carried back from Egypt after its conquest they were seen as trophies, physical embodiments of Rome’s power as well as the power of Augustus. The presence of hieroglyphics would have sealed this meaning for those that did not immediately recognize them as Egyptian. The transportation of the obelisk itself was a symbol of the power of Rome. To move the obelisk all the way to the Nile and then ferry it across the Mediterranean must have proved a formidable task for the Roman Engineers. It is not insignificant that Egypt was also one of the principal grain suppliers to Rome. At this point in its history the city could no longer support itself on the surrounding countryside, and it relied heavily on the fertility of the Nile. The Classicist Grant Parker theorizes that the very transportation of the obelisk was an assertion of the power of Rome to move grain. The obelisk would moreover function as a displacement of concerns over the availability of food. Worries about grain supply were especially pertinent to the lower classes and this interestingly suggests that this message might have been directly aimed at an audience below the rich and powerful.

There were other reasons for Augustus to be interested in the obelisks. Augustus had traveled to Egypt and had there seen the tomb of Alexander. At its entrance stood two obelisks. Wishing to associate himself with Alexander upon his death, Augustus commissioned the construction of two new obelisks out of red granite and placed them at the entrance to his mausoleum. The uneducated might not have caught this reference, but the upper classes certainly would have. This action exemplifies the obelisk’s use as a way of connecting the previously powerful to the currently powerful. In this sense the obelisk is a well defined symbol of power. Often the obelisk would not only associate the possessor with the powerful previous possessor but would attempt to show how the current possessor had more power than the previous one. Egypt was a powerful civilization but Rome must be an even more powerful civilization since it was able to take the obelisk. It must be remember of course that through this very comparison the current owner of the obelisk expresses his respect for the previous owner. The Romans had a great respect for the Egyptian civilization and its religious beliefs as will be discussed later.

The Counter-reformation popes followed this pattern also. For the Popes though, the obelisk was a way of connecting their city back to the glory of Imperial Rome. While the obelisk structure originated in Egypt it now signified their previous owner, the Roman emperor. An inscription on the Quirnal Obelisk commissioned by Pope Pius VI connects him to both Alexander and Augustus, asserting his dominance over the former (this obelisk stood between two statues of Castor and Pollux. As the quote shows, Pius found it more convenient to mistake them for dual Alexanders):

“I, once carved from the cliffs of Egypt and carried by Romulean force over waves to stand as a wondrous monument to the tomb of Augustus, where the Tiber washes the grove of the Caesars, I, whom age vainly tried to bury in the mounded ruins when I was overturned and broken, I am called back to the light by Pius, who bids me to stand, repaired, high on the summit of the Quirnal Hill between the greatest images of Alexander, where I will testify how much lesser Alexander was than Pius.”

The Roman Emperors and Counter-reformation popes also lived during times when Egyptian culture, particularly their religious beliefs, was of intense interest to the educated, upper classes. Eastern cults were popular in Imperial Rome and foremost among these was the cult of Isis, the Egyptian goddess of fertility and femininity. The Emperor Domitian so devoted to her that he built the Iseum, a temple complex for her worship. In a similar vein, Domitian commissioned portraits of himself in which he was portrayed as an Egyptian Pharoah. Domitian more importantly commissioned the carving of the Piazza Navona obelisk, which had his name correctly written in hieroglyphics upon it. Archeologists believe that this obelisk probably first stood in front of the Iseum before it was moved to the Stadium where Piazza Navona now is located. Besides its popular deities, Egypt was associated with timeless wisdom and the occult. This association would remain with the obelisks until their re-erection. Along with their pagan Roman origins, their magical affiliation would necessitate their Christianization by any Pope that wished to erect them.

“Egyptomania” re-emerged with the end of the Reniassance. One of the most interesting figures involved in this was Giordano Bruno, a philosopher, priest, cosmologist, and occultist. He believed that Egyptian religious practices were of great importance to Christianity since they constituted an older, more universal system. It would be through these beliefs that religious differences would be overcome. Bruno even went so far as to suggest that the symbol of the cross had originated in Egypt. Though he was burned at the stake for these kinds of ideas, there were others in greater power that remained free to publicly pursue studies in all things Egyptian. The Borgia apartment in the Vatican depicted Isis and other Egyptian deities, and Pope Alexander VI himself claimed descent from Osiris. It is possible that the erection of the obelisks at this time were an outlet for this widespread interest in Egypt among the educated classes.

There were more universally utilitarian functions for the obelisks of Sixtus V and his followers than just their channeling of the current “Egyptomania”. The obelisks were erected to served as landmarks in the disordered city of Rome. Sixtus V saw Rome as the seat of both temporal and spiritual power. On the first day of his pontificate, Sixtus V set upon the reorganization of the city. He widened and created new roads and at the focal points of these roads he placed obelisks. These obelisks would be dynamic in their ability to draw visitor’s attention as well as their bodies to different parts of the city depending upon which direction one approached them. The Quirnal Obelisk for example can be seen from a long distance down the Via del Quirnale. Its placement draws one toward it and therefore into the heart of the city. Some obelisks were placed such that they could “see” other obelisks. The obelisk at Trinità dei Monti can “see” the obelisk at S. Maria Maggiore for example. In this way the obelisks functioned to connect the various regions of Rome into an intelligible whole.

Sixtus V also began the practice of using obelisks to mark important locations in the city. The three obelisks erected by Sixtus stand in front of the major basilicas of Rome (St. Peter’s, S. Giovanni in Laterano, and S. Maria Maggiore). Three of Sixtus’ obelisks also mark important papal residences. The obelisk at the Piazza del Popolo marks one of the primary entrances to Rome and it is the focal point of a number of major roads in Rome. A confused pilgrim would be able to find his way to a particular church of pilgrimage if he could only spot an obelisk. Popes also often used obelisks to adorn locations in Rome that were important to their family. Innocent X erected the Piazza Navona obelisk in its current location because the square had long been important to his family, the Pamphili. By using the obelisks the popes were able to highlight certain locations that asserted both the church’s and their own personal power.

The Vatican Obelisk



To better examine how an individual obelisk might function, it is instructive to analyze several obelisks’ placement and ornamentation. The first of these is the Vatican obelisk. This obelisk had been brought to Rome by Caligula and set up in the Circus Gia et Neronis where is supposedly “watched” the martyrdom of hundreds of Christians. It was also the only obelisk that stood all throughout the middle ages and the first obelisk to be moved by a pope. This pope was Sixtus V, who had had the intention of changing the position of the monument even before he entered the papacy. The current location was awkward since it stood behind the Vatican and prevented proper framing of it. The obelisk was also beginning to disappear into the earth. Its base was already buried. Moving the obelisk to the front of St. Peter’s Basilica would be a symbol of the triumph of Christian Rome over Pagan Rome. Its monolithic shape would also fit with Sixtus’ plan to make Rome look like center of religious and temporal power on Earth.

The movement of the obelisk would itself be a monumental task and would require one of the best architects of the age, Domenico Fontana. Fontana would make use of two towers and forty capstans to first lower the obelisk and then later raise it. The pope issued a command that during this process a bystander who spoke (crowds came to watch the monument being raised) could be punished by death. Legend has it that at one point while it was being lowered, the crowd noticed that there was a problem with the lines holding the obelisk, they were beginning to become dangerously hot. Then, a sailor in the crowd broke the command when he shouted “Acque alle funi!” (“Water the lines”). Water was deposited on the lines, they held, and the project was saved. Instead of being punished, the Pope rewarded the sailor and his family by giving him the exclusive privilege of selling palms on palm Sunday. It is easy to forget that besides their importance to architecture and art history, the obelisks have played an important role in the progress of engineering.

On September 28, 1586 the obelisk was consecrated with a cross by Sixtus V. Below the cross was added pontifical devices of the five stacked peaks and above them the many pointed star, thus setting a standard which following popes would later imitate.

The Quirinal Obelisk



The second example is the Quirinal Obelisk. This obelisk stands in the Piazza del Quirinale and was erected by Giovanni Antinori for Pius VI. Like most of the other Baroque obelisks, the Quirinal obelisk is a multimedia presentation. It contains different elements from three distinctly different time periods. The obelisk stands on a base in between the two ancient horse tamer statues, all of which stand on another base behind a fountain. The Piazza Quirinale contains several important papal building. The most significant was the papal summer residence (now the president’s building), but the square also included the papal datary and the papal stables. The obelisk would highlight these buildings. The obelisk would also terminate Pius VI Strada Pia. In fact at the crossing of the Strada Pia and Quattro Fontane one can see both of the obelisks from Augustus’ Mausoleum. And as mentioned above, from outside the obelisk could draw viewers into the heart of the city. All these observations make it clear that the location of the Quirnal obelisk was clearly thought out and serves to augment the way a viewer of city would see both the obelisk and the structures that surround it.

Like the Vatican obelisk, the Quirinal obelisk was given significant bronze ornamentation. Art historians are also fortunate to have a letter written by Antinori in which he defends his choice of ornamentation. This gives a clear picture of what the artist/engineer was thinking when he created the adornment of the obelisk. First the obelisk was missing an apex so the bronze ornaments helped draw attention away from this. Antinori placed Eagle shaped astragals that allude to Pius’ arms as well as four projecting Eoli. Furthermore Antinori claimed that he the eagles had been inspired by the column of Trajan and “correspond well with current taste”. The eagles also serve to animate the horses, which had been rotated to look as if they were rearing up away from the obelisk. To those that said there was too much ornamentation Antinori retorted, “simplicity is beautiful, but sometimes it stands out best against some slightly more embellished part that highlights its natural grace”. The Quirinal obelisk shows how through ornamentation the plainness of an obelisk can be enhanced (through contrast) and the intentions of the new erector can be expressed.




Conclusion

The obelisks of Rome are structures that continue to influence generation after generation. For evidence of this one need look only at the way that they continued to make appearances in history. Their massive bulk straddles the whole of western history from the earliest civilizations of the Nile delta to modern day Rome. But it was Rome’s use of obelisks that sparked the modern crazed and it would safe to say that Rome’s obelisk tradition is responsible for the obelisks that one can find in Paris, London, and New York.

Through their existence the presentation of the obelisk has changed. Used in pairs by the Egyptians, functioning as sundials or trophies in Ancient Rome, erected as the marker of a pilgrimage church in Counter-reformation Rome. However the essential design has remained fundamentally the same. Perhaps this is why the modern viewer can still be entranced by its monolithic bulk. It is so simple and universal; there are no barriers that inhibit it from being transferred from one culture or time period to another. It is made up of two simple geometrical entities. The author of this paper found the obelisk’s universal admiration to be their most interesting aspect. Another appeal might be the age of the obelisk. They have come to be associated, like Egypt, with secrets and ancient wisdom. Regardless of this, obelisks continue to animate the streets of Rome and to remind us how easily we place meaning on what is really little different than a larger version of the proverbial block of stone.





Bibliography

Collins, Jeffrey. “Non Tenuis Gloria: The Quirnal Obelisk from Theory to Practice.” Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome 42 (1997): 187-245.

Collins, Jeffrey. “Obelisk designs by Giovanni Stern.” The Bvrlington Magazine 142 (2000): 90-100.

Curl, James Stevens. The Egyptian Revival. New York: Routledge, 2005.

Dibner, Bern. Moving the Obelisk. Norwalk: Burndy Library, 1952.

Galinsky, Karl. Augustan Culture: An Interpretive Introduction, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996.

Grafton, Anthony. “Obelisks and Empires of the Mind.” The American Scholar 71.1 (2002): 123-127.

Parker, Grant. “Narrating Monumentality: The Piazza Navona Obelisk”. Journal of Mediterranean Archeology 16.2 (2003): 193-215.

Piperno, Roberto. “Obelisks of Rome.” Rome: In the Footsteps of an XVIIIth Century Traveler. 1999-2005. < http://www.romeartlover.it/Obelisks.html>

Thursday, September 6, 2007

Relics.

The churchs of Italy all usually have at least one relic in them. This may be a sliver from the cross upon which Christ was cruxified, it could also be something as simple as a cloth that touched a Saint's foot. Where relics become interesting is when they begin to include body parts. In San Domenico in Siena, one may view the head of St. Catherine, the patron saint of both Siena and the Dominicans. The head sits in a gaudy glass case, which nearly resembles a lantern with the grey-brown head taking the place of a candle. The head is well mumified and the case is placed just far enough to make one ever so slighly strain to try and see its details. It has some sort of cloth upon its hollow skull. They also have her finger in a different glass case, this one being much closer to the viewer.

What purpose does a relic serve in a religion where the body is only the clothing of the spirit. In the middle ages, the break from paganism to Christianity was muddled and far less definite than people believe. People were baptized, but they continued to practice many of their previous pagan customs by transforming the local gods into saints that could still be venerated. But what modern purpose do relics serve? They remind us of the miraculous some might say. They form a tie between the legendary miracles of the past and the physical world that each of us so intimately knowns. I reject this view. The finger of St. Catherine tells me nothing about miracles. I maintain that what the finger does is form a link between the holy and the trivial. The monks of San Domenico cannot possibly believe that Catherine's head lantern beautifies her head. Instead what it cleverly does through contrast is to emphasize the imperfection of the head. It does not verify the miraculous by sanctifying matter, but rather it corrupts the sanctified and reminds us that even a saint ought to take better care of their finger nails.

On the Nature of Sounds in Italian Streets.

The twisting labyrinth of streets in Rome and Siena has curious effects on sound. Sound waves are confined to their piazza of origin, or to even a bend in the road. One may be only fifty meters from the Campo de Fiori on a Monday but be unable to hear the roar. This creates a strange sense of spatial isolation. It allows one to sit in a quiet grotto-like piazza and feel completely separated from the loud drone of the city streets. Nowhere was this more clear than in Siena. It was early morning and a local marching band was practicing marching about the streets playing drums (this is only the second of three times that drums made an appearance in Siena). Lying in bed I could hear the drums growing louder, not gradually, but in steps. Noise on the streets is quantized. Of course each time the sound grows louder it meant that the drummers were turning a corner, as it also did when they became muted a minute after their appearance.

An Unexpected Concert.

As we dawdled back from dinner, we heard pounding. It repeated, drums reverberating through the winding streets. Coming out upon the Campo of Siena we saw a crowd. The Campo in Siena is reminiscent of a shallow amphitheater, all lines leading downward toward a low point before the grand secular tower. There was a stage erected there and just off the stage were a circle of drummers in the very center of the crowd. They wore red, but in the dim evening light, all that was visible was the splashes of motion caused by their furious arms.

Later the musicians took the stage and proceeded to fiddle around for an hour. By the time a gawky Italian with an afro took the stage, we were already one by one drifting back to the hotel, feeling a pleasant calm, perhaps from the afternoon's rain.

Pathways in the Air.

From the top of the Duomo, all of Florence is visible. One can see the people flowing like red blood cells through the streets below. But from up on this heavenly terrace one can see another network of paths connecting the buildings. Above the streets, roofs draw near to one another, and buttresses create pathways in the air. One might imagine that a street urchin capable of the ocassional leap, would be able to cross the city without ever having to touch the street.

In Rome, the canopy of the city is lush with greenery, the product of the roof-top gardens. Not so with Florence, this is a forest of trunks, with all but the ocassional verdant budding.

Monday, September 3, 2007

Florence at Night.

Florence in the historical district: The streets are empty except for the a lone man hurrying quickly to some destination outside the city. The omnipresent bread bits litter the street along with the usual trash from the day. Around the corner some of the street vendors still sit on the curb smoking cigaretters. The moon, almost full has risen above the buildings and now hangs next to the enormity of the Duomo.

Florence on the otherside of the Arno: The young throng in the park along the river. There is broken glass on the cobblestones and in the park gravel, fresh cigarette butts smolder among the forest of bare legs. Someone in the crowd is singing.

How can a city provide two such different experiences in one moment?

Siena.

Siena is a controlled city. The streets wander carefully, they do not follow the mindless paths of Rome's roads. The madness of Rome, the unrestraint that pervades the air and allows couples to believe that no is watching is lost in the winds of the mountains. There are many tunnels here, winding their way down the hills.

Mountains.

The stale Roman air can be escaped in the mountains where the humidity is less. Here the streets wind up and down hills, through wandering breezes.

Rain.

It began to rain while we sat on the train in our shorts and t-shirts. No one had brought anything more than a light cardigan and most of us did not even have that. The rain in Italy is seldom, grand, and short. Because of its brevity, the Italians are willing to wait it out. Unlike Seattle, when it rains the streets clear out. By the time we reached the hotel the rain had stopped and the streets were again clean.

The Leather Market.

Close your eyes and allow yourself to be led through Florence. You might as well plug your ears as well, for hearing will only distract you from the true sense that you need to experience the city. The odors will tell you all that you need. The first thing you will probably recognize is the thick, musky odor of leather. You are now in the leather market. You will feel like you are inhaling a cloud of sawdust, the smell of leather is so strong. Walk further and you will pass into the fog of freshly baked bread, the sugary tingle of gelato stands and pastries. Then you will pass into the sharp, rank smell of the Arno and it washes away all else.

Lurking Beasts.

If one looks down upon the Arno from the central bridge, one can see a sight that will renew one's fear of the murky waters of rivers. Black catfish, up to five feet long, compete with suitcase sized round-fish. They slip along the surface devouring bread dropped by the tourists above. What happens when one of the tourists drop?

Romans Go to Sea.

When the Romans go to the beach, they go in masses. They smash themselves into the train. Perhaps you will be standing in a nearly empty train car and you will think, this is well, I shall have a pleasant, unconfined journey to the beach. You shall be wrong though. For soon an Italian mother will enter with her four sons who plop themselves down on the floor of the car. Then two aloof men arrive. Then an amorous couple struggle to enter as they continue to make-out. Soon the train is full, completely and utterly full. You might try to move, adjust your arm, but that would be impossible. Close the doors you think, but it does not matter because there is no room left, already limbs are hanging out the open door. But yet again you are wrong because now seven elderly women, done-up in Roman fashion are pushing themselves into the train. Unlike Americans, Italians do not seem to feel uncomfortable sharing intimate personal space. To understand the time after the doors closed, read the last few cantos of "Inferno".

Odysseus Returned

Treading water, fighting the waves in the wine-dark Mediterranean Sea, how can one not imagine oneself to be the latest reincarnation of Odysseus.

Haze.

If one ventures out of the jungle of the city in the evening, one can see a strange haze rise up and glaze over the descending sun. As I walked along the borders of the city I watched the grass brown to a golden hue.

The Excercisers of the Vatican

Taking a long walk out to the edge of the city where the remnants of the baths stand, I found one of the few places where one can observe Italians performing some sort of formal exercise. It was a region of grassy park bordered by a running trail. Around this one could see figures running and walking. Not jogging, these people would sprint some distance and then walk, different from the continuous patter of Americans. In the center there were monkey bars like one might find on a children's jungle gym. Across it large grown men were brachiating. At another point in the field there was a group of men and women playing a game like pickle ball but without the single bounce.

An Unwelcome Reception (or: Encounter #3)

If you are moving with a large group it will be hard to find a place to eat in Rome. Restaurants are generally about twelve feet wide and they rarely jump at the chance of seating fifteen large American college students. On this night a group of fifteen was wandering in Trastevere looking for a decent meal. Someone among the group spotted a small restaurant, and as groups like these tend to become like one large unintelligent worm, everyone followed what the "eyes" had seen. The restaurant was small and narrow, there was only enough room for us to walk single file through the central aisle. As we entered Italians looked up from their meals. There was a man with a microphone in the center of the room and another at a keyboard in the corner. While he must have been singing previously, he had by now stopped and was looking at us also. As we filed past him he would ask us questions. After each question (usually "what 'bout you, where you from?") he would make some comment to the rest of the Italians in the restaurant and they would all laugh uproariously, pointing fingers at us and tipping back their heads. "You from Seattle? Seattle, Jessica Alba". As we finally learned the dinner cost 48 euro (or perhaps this was simply a trick) a person. Needless to say, we left red-faced. Tail turned, we could still hear the man singing a sarcastic goodbye song to us with the accompaniment of the keyboard and punctuated by terrible laughter.

For Memory.

It is a clever idea that Romans had, creating memorials that help to recall the memory of a person by enticing the viewer to physically interact with the monument. Most people in the US are buried in anonymousness by choosing to be placed beneath nearly identical gravestones that sit in neat rows. The Roman emperors created experiences as memorials, the climbing of a stairway to a view, a spiral one must circle around.

Flow.

Flow of Water: Rome is a city of flowing water. Fountains send water soaring upward into the sky, creating artificial illumination through the reflections in the flying droplets. But these are just the most obvious segment of water's many travels through the city. Water also seeps from hidden cracks in walls, inching its ways across cobblestones to either disappear again to its home below the city or form "mystery puddles", puddles that form in the streets on hot days that are often of dubious origin. Water also flows beneath the city in the dark layers of history. Some of the most ancient buildings have in their deepest depths glimpses of the underground rivers that flow below.

Flow of Pedestrians: The streets of Rome form an intricate network of pedestrian flow. This current behaves similarly to any water or electrical network. In the open piazzas, people move slowly, often they are even stationary, these are the lakes and ponds of Rome. Here gentle waves of tourists lap the shops that line the edges. As one travels into the streets though, the experience changes, pedestrians pick up their speed, only stopping in the eddies created by benches. In the small dark streets the rush of walkers curling back and forth, bouncing from wall to wall is definite, rarely are any walkers static.

Note: It should be noted that resisting the urge to quickly move through the narrower streets can be beneficial to the curious mind.

The Colosseum.

The Colosseum is a monument that woos by extravagance. There is little beauty to me left in its worm eaten form. Its secrets have all been revealed, its stage gone to show the bizarre inner workings of its interior. Magnificence it has through its size, but also a lurking ugliness and even a terror when one remembers its history. And I think less of the terror of the tortures that it inflicted on criminals and slaves, and more of the terror that can be called forth in any feeling human by imagining so many locked in pleasurable enchantment at the torture of others.

A description was given of the Colosseum as it stood in the middle ages when it was a dark place full of shadows, bandits, wolves, and other monsters of the medieval mind. This seems a more fitting end to the structure than the gladiators with cell phones that now inhabit the periphery, the gaudy tourists, the angry postcard salesman. The terror has become mixed with the chaos, snake-lines of tourists winding their way through the brick lined passageways.