51. The Blues!

 my village

Having had enough of all this mini-miny-moaning about everything- governments toppling, politicians nagging at one another (not just in Italy), the never ending story of the garbage in Naples, administrations that don’t work, pensions that don’t come, the justice system that’s all clogged up if not corrupt… I went down the hill to the village to see if the air breathed differently there. There were more than the usual few cars for a Wednesday afternoon half-day closing- yes, something was going on- a funeral. I go to the neighbouring village so as to escape the funeral smell of roses and lilies, and find it impossible to park my white seicento because every square inch of the road, backyards and alleyways were packed with cars- Not another funeral! My tires screeched to a sudden halt, what now? I thought.

 a snap gone wrong

another snap gone wrong

Run, hide, scream… those were the first things that came to mind because when one has had enough with everything, one’s tether wears very thin indeed. I looked at my brand new camera on the seat beside me and turned away disgusted- I couldn’t have cared less- now at the age of almost sixty I go and mess about with all these third millennium gadgets! I simply had no energy to pick it up, get out and learn to use it- that takes, effort, courage, stamina and enthusiasm, all of which were totally absent in my then present state of mind. After my abortive efforts of trying to make sense of the ad on blogging I posted yesterday, I simply found any new gadget which required my attention in order to make it function, completely repulsive.

How I got out of the car with camera in hand, I haven’t the vaguest idea, but there I was in the square holding my shining new camera and not knowing what to do with it. Of course there is an instruction book which I did look at but until I put my hands on the thing and do it, theory just goes through my head as if it were a sieve. It was at that moment that our Parish Priest came hobbling back from the cemetery after having buried one of the few still remaining Knights of the First World War victors. I waved to him and he neared told me Father Anthony had got into contact. Ah! Father Anthony, the Salesian, I thought as I recalled how he had messed about on my computer and cut and pasted one of my photos to show me that a girl’s face appeared on the central daffodil I had painted in memory of Meredith (entry 44) Not content with that he cut and pasted another photo that we had taken around the village on Boxing Day which he needed to complete his holiday course work on journalism at the University in Rome- (not the one where the Pope was made so welcomed!)

For his course work, Father Anthony had to do an interview so he interviewed me on why the village had so many frescos and so I told him how it all began. But for that aspect, I need to devote a whole entry….

After messing about with my camera attempting to take pictures of the frescos, I went home totally disgusted with myself and see if I could do better by taking photos of some of my paintings- perhaps they would come out better- what a hope!

Father Anthony town centre of my village

All that took place yesterday- Today I took a look at my efforts and discovered that my painting of poppies came out with specks of white as if it were snowing on it, my self-portrait of when young had smears of the reflection of the glass, and my sleeping cat seemed out of focus! So I went back to some of the photos I did with the other camera and came up with Father Anthony, again! But since it’s the feast of Saint Francis de Sales today, I think a photo of a Salesian is not out of keeping just to round the day off. Happy Feast Day Everyone... in spite of all the moaning... ah yes, please, please, let tomorrow be better!