Author Archives: Erika Bizzarri

Shattered. Shards of glass  lie scattered underfoot. All I had meant to do was dust it. Finnish, it was, you said. A small crystal goblet gifted by a special friend. It slipped from my hand and is now in fragments. Meant to contain a cordial or a shot of whisky, it was as Heidegger saidContinue reading “Finnish Crystal Glass”

She opened the icebox door and jumped back as a two-foot long snake-like creature slithered out and onto the kitchen floor. No one had warned her that a fisherman from the lake of Bolsena had passed by to leave the usual Christmas homage to the architect, the head of the house.  After the initial shock,Continue reading “Eels, Garlic, Wine, & Truffles                “

We come into this world on an endlessly moving stream, a moving sidewalk if you like, carrying us to our final port of call. Apparently alone, a host of others, on their individual conveyor belts, follow along as we continue our relentless journey through the tunnel of life. In passing, scenes flash by on eitherContinue reading “Moving Sidewalk / Conveyor Belt”

Remembered September, 2021 Rome? For me Rome was Carolyn, it was Monteverde Vecchio.  It was going to the station in Orvieto, through streets that were still empty where blinds had been thrown open only here and there and the only sign of life might be a man in his undershirt stretching and yawning in theContinue reading “Carolyn’s Rome”

In the year 1052 Ou-Yang in his study heard a pattering and rustling, that broke into a great churning and crashing, like the noise of waves, or of soldiers going to battle.  Sent out to see what it was, his boy returned declaring he had seen no men and that the noise must be inContinue reading “October”

There are closets and cupboards, storerooms and glass cases, where one keeps one’s relics, the things that tie one to yesterday. They may sometimes have an intrinsic value of their own, sometimes, divorced from their surroundings, they may seem to be pieces of junk. One forgets they have a history, were created, were loved, dusted,Continue reading “Worth Keeping”

I could be anywhere, you said. Anywhere, or nowhere.  You can only walk back and forth along a corridor, a ambulation to be precise. I think of a church and its ambulatory. Where one perambulated in the chancel behind the high altar. Off bounds. Past a door to the world outside, off bounds, prisoner ofContinue reading “Anywhere, Elsewhere, Nowhere”

Monday, any Monday, summer or winter It was not yet eight. The worn wooden door, it really needed painting, opened to let a dog on a leash and a cane appear, followed by an elderly lady, a fedora covering her grey hair and the elastics of that mandatory mask. She took in the container forContinue reading “Or, If, Perhaps, If Only”

The past is never   “past”, suddenly without warning it may surface like a rubbing of indented writing, indelible traces of bygone days, although often specific recollections of who and what elude me. A young man accosts me in the piazza of a hill town where I had gone in search of pottery for my shop.Continue reading “One Never Knows”

I can hear them conversing, comparing, arguing. Oh, I’ve had quite a life. As befits nobility like me. A golden robe no less. You others all pale by comparison. Don’t be so sure of yourself. You may date to 1930, but were made for a rather self-centered man who thought himself above all others. IContinue reading “Fabric Scraps”

October 17, 2013 Leopard spotted flannel Hand printed potato die Left over remnant of my two-year old’s pjs. What happened to the leopard suit? What happened to the little boy? The suit has gone the way of things outgrown. The little boy given way to the man. 

Did the owner think of the apartment I’m in now as a sort of gatehouse, with concierge services? The entrance door is glass, although it’s clouded glass. The small window at one side offers a glimpse into the room I inhabit,  and I have hung a Chinese scarf there to preserve my privacy. Privacy? ForContinue reading “Glass Doors”

All she had was a photo of 60 years ago. A young soldier holding a gun, on the bank of a river. And then there were the letters. These were the man she had learned to love. His last letter was dated September 2001. He had wheeled himself into the TV room and with theContinue reading “All over”

(1995 – rewritten    2017) Words, words, words. Written, spoken, whispered, murmured, shouted, modem, internet. Ways to know each other. Words engender words. Grow like a vine around a thought. Define its shape, explore, insinuate, envelop. A word – an offshoot – of the word that came before. But there was touch before the word. snowflake featherContinue reading “Words”

Year in year out, there was a turnover of objects in the shop. Gualverio might have discovered wooden begging bowls, or someone who made botanical prints. Once he brought two Sicilian puppets. An artist friend asked me to help out a struggling Rumanian artist who did traditional under-glass paintings of Orthodox saints. In Perugia weContinue reading “Erika Shop II”

There’s a suitcase on either side the bureau. There’a suitcase on either side the bed. The apartment is small – no room for storage. Suitcases must make do. A life, once full, keeps shrinking. My life. Your life. Camping out, now. Waiting for the end. Our baggage of earthly remains. Carry-ons no longer new, bearing signsContinue reading “Camping Out”

There was once a shop in an alley near the fantastic cathedral of Orvieto. It was called Erika, after the lady whose spirit it reflected. Most people probably discovered it by chance. Maybe it was when they saw that at the beginning of the alley the stone head of some imaginary beast was constantly spoutingContinue reading “Erika Shop”

August 4, 1994 Cerulean chickory still lines the road, ragged flecks torn from the sky. Spikes of yellow mullein branch into menorahs of golden stars with hearts of flame. Vanguards of creeping dwarf convolvulus insinuate their way between the stones encroach on asphalt, dot shorn roadside banks. Pale rosy faces greet the morning sun, pleatedContinue reading “August in Italy”