Junkyard 3, Week 1

Montelucco, ghosts everywhere lower the temperature. Trees spiral and twist clenching the clouds in witless branches. I enter into the dead tree, its gaping mouth, wet, sacred, black. Saint Francis’ chapel is no longer inscribed with God, but Roberto 1965. The cities of Italy are so inscribed with angels leaning out from walled windows, with graffitied 69s and “JBoys,” with the painted cheeks of the Renaissance, the engraved pockmarked stone of the Romans, no history can be made here, there is no room. 

I'm working on a graffiti piece, something I probably have in common with everyone else here. The graffiti here is as omnipresent as the fading frescas, where cherubs turn to white stucco. I'm obsessed with this idea of Italy as a space so inscribed that it can't fit any more words, any more history, and is slowly dissolving, the palimpsest reverting to a blank.