Rome Blog

Thomas Cane                The storms had just passed and wildlife was slowly re-emerging.   Raindrops from the tree tops fell onto my hand and the pages of my notes.   As the wind rustled the trees more rain fell, and facing it some drops glanced across my cheeks.   The rough texture of gravel massaged my feet lessening the pain from the countless miles of walking.   Sunlight quietly streamed through the canopy and warmed my skin.   Silence filled the yard for a time, but eventually sound reawakened.   The birds chirping and cawing as they emerged from their shelters filled the trees.   The gentle flutter of their wings added to the sound of wind through the trees.     My ears picked up the cautious gait of people walking over wet gravel slick with rain.   There was the sliding of wheels over this gravel too wet to roll over.   Focusing far away from our enclosure the surrounding cityscape was whirring with the echo of motors.   If I kept my focus on the immediate surrounding ther

Thomas Cane                Standing upright he looks down at those who would dare gaze upon the accomplishments enshrouding his figure.   At his feet there lies the signature supporting column created by the Romans to support their visions developed in bronze or marble.   Small toes become softened ankles leading up his shins the gentle curves from the knees draws attention to the muscularity of his quadriceps.   Behind these emboldened limbs is the sublime buttocks that attracts our attention so readily and supplies such an immense source of rye humor.   Eyes trace his forearms from elbow to fingers moving back to the front of the figure.   In the left hand are the golden apples turned to bronze sitting gently in his plush palm.   Out of the interest for symmetry we look at the right hand and see only the handle of what would have been a club used for slaying great beasts and acquiring the nearly godly status of his deeds.   His chubby face is topped with the signature lion head t

Thomas Cane                The journey begins descending the stairs by Ponte Cavour taking me to the underside of Rome, a well-traveled location for locals and the home of many stories and walks of life.   Shockingly as oppose to the empty walkways I had seen the night before the left bank of the Tiber was bustling with action.   A pair of men sat at the river’s edge holding fishing poles hoping to catch a bite.   Around them lay a cobblestone walkway adjacent to a bike path where cyclists were fleeting back and forth either training for competition or leisurely cycling on a beautiful clear day.   Continuing further down passed the graffiti laden embankments there were panes of glass housing select pieces of Italian literature that had been violently smashed in by rocks as if to say the people had rejected these works and would no longer tolerate their existence.   Passing under the Ponte Mazzini created a very new perspective of Rome I was completely blind to until this journey.  

Thomas Cane                They stand in the middle of the Piazza near the obelisk focused intently on themselves and completely isolated from any passerby’s.   He holds a camera poised to record the history and beauty surrounding them, but amongst that beauty she is the focus.    Settled in a white dress with sun drenched hair encircled with flowers her hands on her hips waiting expectantly for the camera to capture poised perfection.   Except there is one flaw that begins to envelop her composure and slowly disintegrates their unassuming companionship.   The ends of her dress drag through the dusty cobblestones and muddy puddles irreparably staining it, and soon the man begins to notice this corruption.   As they continue their vain pursuits the sun continues to beat down on them like flames lashing out of a raging forest fire adding to their eventual devastation.   They had come to this open armed Piazza to repair what had happened between them and hoping that the love of St. Pe

Thomas Cane Sitting with my back turned to the fountain of Neptune the bubbling water churns itself, infinitely flowing and feeding itself.   The wind picks up and breezes across the open grounds blowing across the pool of the fountain chilling the air.   The sounds of bustling travelers meet my ears as they stream throughout the cobbled walkways shuffling their feet as they seek out their next destination.   Young French students charge up next my seat and begin jovially taking photos of each other posing in front of the fountain laughing and fleeting about.   The definitive snap of Nikon cameras fills the surrounding space as if the Piazza has turned into a red carpet event with the scenery as celebrities and eager tourists as paparazzi.   The cooling breeze pricks my nose with its chilling breath and brings no sense of salt or chlorine, just the scent of pure roman water.   The wind shifts around me and suddenly the acrid stench of smoke stabs my nostrils as cigarettes burn th