In my attempt to get into the groove of many things, I’m going back to my writing workshop roots. Thus, this post was written by hand (see picture) and transcribed to make it internet-friendly. To get started, I chose a random word (“shoes”) and started writing the first memory that corresponded to that particular word. As I anticipated yesterday, there’s something about channeling memory and having it travel through your brain, and out of your fingers via pen and paper that makes you feel a little raw and vulnerable and truthful.
My dad has these shoes he bought in Italy. In Rome or Florence. I can’t remember which. I know when he’s wearing them even before I see his feet because, they click. Against floors. It’s a light, little click, click. It reminds me of an older, well-dressed Italian man, waling across a piazza after his morning espresso. Caffeinated, he clicks (click, click, click) in a determined way. The clicks come so quickly, you think maybe he’s angry. But the reality is, he’s just a Type A man. Unlike the older Italian man, however, my American father of Dutch ancestry is not well-dressed. He believe navy blue tee shirts match with old, beat up & faded, black shorts. I think I understand his reasoning, two Dark colors. Like and like. But when he slips on his light brown leather Italian loafers with the wooden heel that click, clicks, he kind of pulls it off. It’s the determination of the clicks; the suaveness of his alter ego … his Italian soles.