the mind is a city like London,
smoky and populous: it is a capital
like Rome, ruined and eternal.
-- Delmore Schwartz

past the ledges of the orchards and the vines the car slopes up through the quiet naked woods, downy oaks robinia and salix (especially robinia) (still the bright beige leaves of the oaks hang from the ascending branches obstinately) standing above the underwood of brambles and hazels with joyously unrolled yellow male flowers, at first the shattered gravel road whose bends seem to disappear out of the slant and into the trees, then fading into concrete, sudden civilization of garages and magnolia trees across montevecchia alta hills down, to the inevitable lowlands, the consistent street lights, the wide round abouts, the trucks one after the other, the honks, the cedars, bar tabacchi, farmacia, casalinghi, the incongruous architectures of Brianza, the blue and white and brown signs of towns and cities to reach, the giant malls offshore into the parking lots, and going rolling and hanging into the traffic, rapidly squeezed into highway east and very fast, passing many cars, going south, the low enraged sun blazing white hot on the concrete and into the eyes, hazardous moving from lane to lane to the exit few miles ahead and finally at the streetlight of viale forlanini, in front of me the low canyons of the city, sky fading to white, rumble of the restless souls, people rushing down the sidewalks, in and out of the many shops, gatherings of more waiting for the tram 12, haze of gases and dust all and above, mothers crossing the streets with probably folded up babies in strollers, VIP cars pushing into the reserved lane, white trunks of the plane trees going up and in the sun, I look for a parking spot, hot in the face, lowered windows, in my green gardener suit and the whole car dung-smelling dust crackling, today I stole from work batches of preserves and jams now scattered on the passenger seat, I am coming back from the absurd organic farm up in the hills where I work this week again. I find the parking spot. From the warm valley where the only sounds are chirping of birds and far away hammering in the orchards I am here bumping the car up above the curb and civilization is everywhere and immediately completely all around and rightfully irreversible and ¿just how absurdly it is to forget all about it for a underpaid brief day of hard-working dung-shoveling illusions?
Moh'. Who cares? For the failures? I drove a 1978 Lamborghini tractor with a trailer today up and down those ledges and thought I would overturn it any moment, and hated it. I can walk home with a fair walk and joyful.

--In picture, above: the aforementioned tractor. Music: "because of this", mark lanegan