Strange Rumblings in Catania

In Catania, I think of being gaunt and brown with a headful of shaggy hair. Worn out after dragging that old aluminum ketch eight hundred some odd miles from Istanbul. With my Crazy Uncle Pinky and Father for company. Playing cards and gazing up into the stars. Going days without a word and having great big hot tears long overdue. Suddenly motoring for shore as Etna peeks out from the horizon. Hurling my duffel bag and jumping overboard, landing on the dock with a thud. Running for the hills, lanky and locomotive with my slippers flapping in the wind. Chasing fruit and visas and stew and espresso. Dust and mopeds whining. Craving the sweat and buzz so dearly. Stretching like a feral cat. Lumbering down the main drag. Looking for a slab of tuna to gnaw on. Through worn in parks, scarfing arancino’s and following my nose. Down alleyways filled with carved stone and graffiti swirling up into the rafters.

Catania isn’t the sort of place where bottles of wine last very long. Sicilians rev their engines and rip sails and don’t care much for holsters of any kind. Use every damn drop. Strange rumblings insist upon it. Vibrating through the whole town. Catania could be buried in ash and magma at any moment, and everybody knows it.