Taurobolium

Bzzzzzzzzzz

Bzzzzzzzzzzz

Bzzzzzzzzzzzz

Bzzzzzzzzzzz

A sigh falls out of my mouth unbidden as I attempt to ignore the fly that has been trying so hard to gain my attention.

A second later, my lips close with a pop. The bright sun peeks behind my eyelids like melted rainbow sherbet as my mind lazily follows the starburst floating there.

Thud

Thud

Thud

My fingers play a song with my chest and my Juniper woven sweatshirt. I can feel the grass give and poke under my jeans as my restless legs begin to dance to the tune.

Another sigh betrays me - my jaw clenches. And I just blow out all the air left in my body, feeling it all sink deeper into the ground as my eyes flutter open wide.

So much for being one with nature and all that. My arm lifts swiftly and then crashes to the ground hard with a Zzzzt. And, finally, the damn fly shuts up.

Aaand, wonderful, in the middle of where once was a mediocre attempt at my next artistic masterpiece, is a gross, gray hued goo.

Picking up my sketchbook to further inspect the damage, I almost wonder what kind of impact this piece could make. What do you see in the midst of this landscape meadow? Life and death? The inevitability of chaos amongst peace? Maybe the acknowledgement that there is always something out of your control that can simply decide to ruin everything, and do it.

With that malignant line of thought I decide to call it a day. Gathering my blanket, my sketchbook, pencils, charcoal, and paints, I pack them in my bag and lumber to my feet. I take one last look around at the place that is supposed to be my haven - the cherry trees, the lavender bushels, the lake, and wonder why it is that I just can’t find inspiration anymore. Why, every time I close my eyes, my heart begins to pick up pace and all the muscles in my body clench.

Forty minutes later, I come out of my total dissociation as I walk into my house. And I realize, dejectedly, that this may be why. Without my mom, with just me, I just don’t really know why I’m here, what the point of it all is. I wake up, I go to work cutting flowers, I come home, and I try to make a piece that will change everything - a piece that will make me feel something. A piece that means something. A piece that will get me into this damn school and move forward in my life.

We used to talk about it all the time. I can see her in the back of my mind wearing her sunflower bandana and the freckle at the corner of her lip dancing as she laughed, painting a picture of me at some university gallery showcasing my art and getting hit on by funny, elegant people who offered to take me somewhere new every night. On some adventure. She’d always add how I would come home and tell her my new stories, and then take her on trips of our own to see new parts of the world, and try a cherry danish in each one.

My body begins to shake, and I try to make myself as small as possible as I wrap my arms around me to maybe stay in one piece. But I haven’t made anything. I haven’t created anything, nothing that will get me in through the door to begin that life. Instead, I’m stuck here in this dark, empty, judgy studio apartment full of her things. I stare at the wall, I fall asleep, I wake up, I go to work, I come home, I try to make something, I stare at the wall, I fall asleep, I wake up, I go to work, I come home, I try to make something, I stare at the wall, I fall asleep, I wake up, I go to work, I come home, I try to make something, I stare at the wall, surrounded by the constant emptiness that is her, that was us.

And I do this, as the leaves pile halfway up the front door, as those leaves are replaced by snow, as that snow melts from all the rain showers, as I begin to sweat through my clothes in my room, and as the leaves begin to fall outside my window again. That’s when I get a call.

The call was confirming the itinerary for two tickets. Two tickets to Rome, all inclusive. My heart feels heavy. She must have planned this, before, to celebrate me finishing my first year of school. We always wanted to go to Rome, to see the art at the Vatican, the architecture of the Colosseum, the Pantheon, the Trevi Fountain. We could pretend we were gladiators or Romans, and find niche cafes to drink wine and eat our cherry danishes. I could create a whole new series of pieces based on our experiences there.

As I save the message in my voicemail I can almost hear her voice, can see her long perfect fingers tapping on her keyboard planning this secret trip. Part of me wants to go. The other wants to go find a wormhole to jump into, so I could just fall through space forever or disappear. So I sit down to try to create a piece, end up staring at the wall, fall asleep, wake up, go to work, come home, try to make art, stare at the wall, fall asleep, wake up, go to work, come home, try to make art, stare at the wall, and fall asleep.

And suddenly around 3:40am my eyes fly open to the pitch black darkness of the room and without knowing what I’m doing, I pack my bag, grab a cab, go through TSA, and am up thousands of feet in the air on my way to Italy.

I realize I may have made a mistake when I exit the airport and have no idea where I’m going, and also don’t speak any Italian. Luckily, I’m able to find the email I never opened with the itinerary for the trip, and ask the cab driver to bring me to the Airbnb.

Once I put my bag on the bed, it finally hits me. I’m in Rome...on a trip my mother planned, without her. As my body begins to shake I try to take in my surroundings instead. Everything is red and gold - the walls, the bed, the couch, the kitchen table. Red and gold, with little figurines and old paintings.

Four days into my spontaneous trip, I find myself meandering through a small alcove. For once, I feel this strange sense of calm pervade my being. Danish and coffee in hand, I sit on a stone slab, take a breath, and feel the smells of the cherry laurels and lilies float and sing through my nose and take root in my brain to produce some oxytocin. My eyes find their way to the center of the circle I am in to find a large, bronze statue of a bull, and end up replaying a tour I had taken the other day in my mind. Bulls were sacred in Rome due to the taurobolium, a sacrifice for the well-being of the people as well as the state. But, even though the bull was the sacrificial victim, it was revered as divine, symbolizing regeneration and fertility.

I find myself unconsciously moving closer to the statue, taking in the contours of its face, the strong muscles in its chest, the formidable eyes, its horns ready to charge. The bull’s statue screams intelligence, dedication, honesty, and, yes, love. I feel tears, unbidden, streaming down my face as I reach a hand to touch its cheek. Something inside me cracks open like an egg as a sense of expansion begins to bloom and trickle. And finally, for the first time in what seems a lifetime, I tear into my backpack and pull out my sketchbook. Cherry preserves slide against my tongue as my charcoal glides across the page. It’s time.