I Wax At Hadrian's Villa

On Wednesday, through an architectural class, we field tripped to Hadrian's Villa. Hadrian was a Roman emperor in the early second century; it was him, then Antoninus, the Marcus Aurelius, from Gladiator, if that helps. He was adopted by the Emperor Trajan on account of his skills in administration (an aside: I was recently offered adoption on account of my skills in mathematics). One of the things Hadrian is remembered for is his villa, which he built in Tivoli, south of Rome, on his wife Sabina's land. He then proceeded to fill it with images of his lover, Antinous. Take that, woman. Or just women, everywhere.

The villa is an enormous small town, self contained, with a sampling of everything, even two separate baths. The place is overrun with angles (if I've only learned one thing this past month studying architecture, it is that all cities are planned using axises. Or is it axi? Axis's?). The three primary axises (axisz?) terminate at the Maritime Theater.

But it's not really a theater. It's Hadrian's private residence. You see, Hadrian built an ideal, perfect place, a getaway from Rome, and it still wasn't enough. So he created a perfect circle, erected a Pantheon-like building, then surrounded it by a moat (when I get back home, 1915 Wedington is gonna be moated). He retreated to the Maritime Theater when he wanted to be alone to write poetry, or when he got in a mean disposition, which, according to people who know about such things, was quite frequent.

We were instructed to take some time out and sketch the Maritime Theater. What? Sketch? All the architecture students took this in stride, and immediately sat down and went to work. After some hesitation, I began to draw a column, but this column ended up looking so much like Boba Fett's helmet that I decided to finished the whole figure.

After I was done with the bounty hunter, my thoughts began to wonder, till I arrived right back in the place I was originally, thinking about how funny people act. How Hadrian built an ideal place, found out it wasn't enough, then tried to build a getaway from his getaway. How people try to fill that hole inside them - the one right between the chestplates, in the middle, at the bottom of the breast. You feel that? That gap, right smack in the middle, that empty space? People try to put the strangest things there. I try to put the strangest things there.

But that's all fancy talk.

I Complete My Trilogy of Birthday Posts

In Rome, my birthday has lasted for a solid week. It's a downgrade from that six more weeks of birthday wave I ride off of the groundhog's shadow, but it's still nice.

I received a birthday package from my mom; in it were all essentials to throw a party. Happy Birthday Plates, Happy Birthday Napkins, Happy Birthday Streamers, Happy Birthday Noisemakers, Happy Birthday Credit Card. She also sent me two Vonnegut books, which are a much needed change from the required Italian literature (the Italians have any amazing capacity for the desire to be depressed).

My mom also told me of the birthday party I missed. Apparently, on Sunday, my mom invited many of my friends over to the family house and had a surprise party. Surprise. They ate spaghetti and even got party favors. I haven't been to a party with favors since I went to St. Joseph's Elementary. At the head of the table was a mock-up Cass Trumbo: face, clothing, the whole kit and caboodle. There's pictures to prove it.

The Red, my old roommate, he tells me that my face made the pilgrimage back to 1915 Wedington, where I live when not skiing in the Alps. He tells me that given its current position, in the living room above the potted plant, the face comes off as some sort of shrine for the deceased. Though I've only been gone for a month, I'm already being mourned.

So if you have it in your heart to pay your respects to the dearly departed, several countries removed me, go and visit The Red, Bo, and whoever else is living in the house (it's more like a hotel, really); they could use the company, and my grave could use some flowers.