I thought the idea of going to Detroit in the middle of winter was exotic.
Downtown Detroit
It would be bitterly cold and there might even be some snow.
Alumni Game, Comerica Park, Detroit, December 31, 2013
I dreamed of a blizzard. 
I knew all of this wouldn’t happen – with global warming bearing down – but kept to my dreams of icy roads…
Frozen landscapes…
Toronto Island
Airport closures…
Billy Bishop Airport, Toronto
In a world hushed by snow.
Union Square, New York
Maybe next year. 
It’s best to start your Las Vegas weekend with a sense of economy. Have the taxi stop at a liquor store away from the Strip where alcohol and snacks are cheap. Many of the best deals – including helicopter tours and tennis court bookings – can be found in the publications conveniently displayed throughout the lobby and your room.
This is the moment to be savored, drink in hand, the famed Strip shimmering beneath your hotel window, the weekend waiting to unfold, a feeling of serenity washing through.
A long stroll may now be enjoyed, breathing in the desert air, watching the volcano erupt, the fountains dance, the pirates do battle and the people scream from a roller coaster high above, after which a cheap and gluttonous buffet may be enjoyed at any of the hotels. It is now – buzzed, bloated and only $25 out of pocket – that the white bing-bing-bing noise of the casino floor can no longer be ignored. 
Black Jack is a popular game because it’s easy to learn and offers seemingly good odds, the house having 2-3% advantage. The dealer is important – pleasant, relaxed – as are the players – friendly people who know how to play the game – as it is where to sit – some like the first seat, some the last – but there’s no rush. The night is long. 
The first $100 bill slides out nicely, crisp, folded down the middle; a neat pile of chips reds and greens, are given in return. The waitress takes your order, and it’s free. Bets are small at first; $5 and $10, the occasional $20. The money goes up and down, down and back up. There are no clocks, no windows to the rest of the world. There’s only the cards, the free drinks and oxygen pumped in to keep your spirits high, no matter the luck. 
Several drinks and maybe even a cigar into the evening, and the stakes begin to rise. Whether you’re almost bust or have already doubled your money, the idea of getting another Blackjack on a lousy $5 bet cannot be tolerated.$20 becomes the new minimum. A streak means you’re up $400 just like that, money out of nothing, sheer guts. And then it’s gone, on a pair of Aces doubled down. Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable. The bathroom is hard to find. The bank machine is not. 
The trick is setting yourself a spending limit. The second trick is not being too hard on yourself when that limit is surpassed. The third and biggest trick is to ensure that you do not have access to all of your savings. Crisp $100 bills pop out of the machine. You’re back at the table and on another streak – a pair of 8s doubled down this time, and the dealer goes bust. That’s what I’m talking about! 
A pile of chips is set aside, the money that you came in with. Incredibly you’re back on par. You allow yourself $200 to gamble. Once that’s gone, it’s back to the room to look at the view. But another $50 on top of that doesn’t matter that much. Nor the next. And on. You go back to the bank machine and the fight begins anew. The hole is deep and dark. A rally is imminent, but there’s nothing left, nothing. It’s all gone. You know that you stashed a reserve somewhere but can’t find anything. The dealer, your fifth of the night, watches and waits. It’s time to get some sleep. It’s a long walk home. 
You ask a cheery jogger for the time. 7:30 am. It doesn’t matter. There’s still the booze in the room and budget, a very strict budget for the next three days. There are some basketball games in the afternoon, easy bets. Make two or three of those, and everything changes. And there’s always the slots. With a bit of luck, everything could change. A jackpot even, imagine that.
It’s hard to fall asleep. Cards pop out of nowhere, impossible permutations – a 5 on the dealer’s 16, your Aces split with a 4 and a 3, thousands and thousands of cards, click, click, click. The body cries out against the abuse. Guilt rages. Someone has to be called, a confessor, a loved one. The woman at the tennis reservation desk will have to do. Your court time has to be cancelled. 
A small group led by Peter Kerrivan walked out of a settlement in Newfoundland some 200 years ago and vanished into the barrens. They were never heard from again, transforming them into myth. It’s an image I use near the end of my bad side.
The streetlights came in above the band, Kerrivan’s Men, the green and red light across the fishing nets and buoys, onto the pews in the back. Fitz returned with our drinks.
“Who’s Kerrivan?” I asked.
“Kerrivan led a group of fellahs off with him into the barrens,” he explained. “This was some 200 years back. Didn’t like how he was being treated by the Royal Navy – the English always hated the Irish, yeah? – and up they went into the barrens, lived off the land. Called themselves the Masterless Men.”
“Never seen again,” Tommy added.
“Charlie swears he’s in the line, his great great granddad the man himself.”
“Probably another great in there at that.”
“Maybe another one, yeah.”
“What do you mean they lived in the middle of nowhere?” I asked.
“Down there on the peninsula, in the rocks and bog, nothing but low trees and wind.”
“For how long?”
“No one knows,” Tommy replied. “Generations.”
“Maybe they died,” I replied.
“Some would say that. The English would. Not me. I think they waited to be forgotten and then came back in.”
“Yeah,” Fitz agreed. “That’s what they did.”
Although they say it is not a good year for tartufo, and it is late in the season, we nevertheless decided that we would have them this weekend.
Tartufo (truffles) are the fruiting body of a subterranean fungus in northern Italy and they are very expensive because they are hard to find. 
Thinly sliced onto fresh pasta with butter or a fried egg, they have a pungent odor and a taste that lingers.
And there was a restaurant beside a castle, outside the town of Alba, which offered them.
But then the chef appeared and offered his profound apologies, which I found out later were most insincere. It was all a masquerade. They were trufffe-less. We would have to look elsewhere.
We continued into the hills the next morning, where the weather began to change.
We found a market in Alba, and although concerned about the quality of the produce, negotiated and purchased. 
We drove through the storm back home to Milan.
Preparations were made. 
And distractions avoided.
At long last the tartufo was ready.
And it was very good.
From the Serbian Pavilion, Vladimir Veric’s Nothing Between Us, conveying a loss of innocence. 
And from the Australian Pavilion, Simryn Gill’s scattered words.
We had to catch the final sailing of Ragnar Kjartansson’s S.S. Hangover at the far end of the Venice Biennale 2013 and returned a couple of hours later against the crowds…
Through the Bahamas Pavillion.. 
Through South Africa…
Past the Giant Woman…
Winding our way through all the perversions…
My partner telling me that this year’s Biennale was more about the artists’ stories rather than the art…
Under the Swinging LatvianTree…
Around the Representation of Symbiosis…
Back to the open air…
All of which gave me that distinct Poseidon Adventure feeling: You’re Going the Wrong Way! 
Venice’s Hotel Danieli, built in the 14th century as a Doge’s Palace, has been host to great writers such as Dickens, Zola and Goethe and features Murano glass chandeliers and original works of art. 
However, last night, it had an strange lilt, as the piano player was deferring to his American clientele with such songs as Sweet Home, Alabama (Lynyrd Skynyrd), Crocodile Rock (Elton John) and Take Me Home, Country Road (John Denver) to which many sang along. 
It was an odd tone only made worse when I asked for the bill, “Compiti, grazie.” (Indeed, like many, I needed to do my homework.)
The cons of writing on a train: limited leg room, loud people and the occasional sway.
Leaving Milan
The pros of writing on a train: the sense of movement, the landscape flowing past and the occasional sway. 
And then of course there’s the getting there too.
Giudecca, Venice
Richard Blanco is not only a celebrated poet and a genuine soul, unafraid of the perilous depths of self, but he also really knows his stuff. 
I was privileged to be part of the Sanibel Writer’s Conference this weekend and listen to his thoughts in workshops and readings. 
No single line of poetry is ever arbitrary. Every line of poetry is like a truss in a bridge. It has to hold its own weight. It’s picking up from one side to the next. Each must be able to transfer the load to the next. It’s not that different from prose, understanding the basics of language. 
All poems should be read aloud. You’ll be surprised what your body tells you about it. Poetry cannot escape that aspect. We need to remember poetry was once a means of gathering, around the camp fire. It was music, the troubadours. That’s its roots. 
He even explained iambic pentameter with ease.
It’s not just the syllables and iambs. It’s important because it matches one breath. It is a unit of thought, a yardstick for ideas. Anything shorter seems abrupt. Anything longer seems long-winded, more of narrative rhetoric. Iambic pentameter is a good fundamental tool to focus and modulate the lines, something that can now be played with in free verse.
I want to find The Gulf Motel exactly as it was
And pretend for a moment, nothing lost is lost.
(*From Looking for the Gulf Motel.)
Another early start to the day at the Sanibel Writing Conference, more time for writing exercises with John Dufresne.
Writing Exercise 1: List of Frail Things (Derived from The Pillowbook of Sei Shonagon)
Old people, children, stained glass window, eyes, bones, atmosphere, ice, wings, egos, sleep, understanding, eggs, music.
Writing Exercise 2: Start a piece with “It was a dark and stormy night”:
It was a dark and stormy night, just the beginning. I was glad for it. We wouldn’t have to leave. We wouldn’t have to do anything but watch the windows buffet, the rain tear sideways at the tops of the trees and police car driving slowly around.
“What time is it?” Valerie looked tiny in the door.
“What does it matter?”
Writing Exercise 3. “Everything is broken”
“Everything is broken.”
She stepped onto the cement ledge and pulled out her Sponge Bob alarm clock. “Not everything.”
“Ruined.” I stared out, the trees hanging low over the lone sloped-down wall, the window twisted down, looking at the ground.
She grabbed onto a board and climbed onto the pile.
It came over in a nauseous wave, suddenly up from her stomach and lungs. I was going to throw up. “Get down from there!”
Writing Exercise 4. Getting a terrible diagnosis:
She waited on the line. Steely Dan. That’s who it was; she had never liked that song.
“Hello?”
“Yes.”
“It’s what we were afraid of.”
She pressed her finger against the table, watched it go white and flat. She wondered how far back she could get it. The bone wouldn’t break. “Is there a treatment?”
“Bring him in the morning.”
“Thank you.” She didn’t remember hanging up or sitting, but she had his head in her lap and stroked his neck and shoulder. She hated how vulnerable he made himself. She squeezed him harder than she wanted. He looked up at that.
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