I almost reached Piazzale Michelangelo – aware of a beating heart – only a small slope remaining but I decided to cut through to the Giardino delle Rose, where I sit in the shade impressed by the vigorous shoots of the roses – no flowers yet, of course. Knocked off course by the recent nose bleed event – now nearly three weeks ago – though I remain nervous of possible repetitions.
Palazzo Vecchio crenellated and pushing into the sky, the image of Renaissance power, the oligarchs of the past. Now we are seeing the current rise to power of plutocrats and oligarchs, the pirates of our time, who are having great success in undermining “our” democracy. Is democracy too demanding? The work of democracy too hard? After all we have to think, read, study, debate: the corruption of consumerism is easier. We can surrender to the demands and blandishments, the illusion of a life both comfortable and easy, told to us in simple images by the advertising industry, those agents of the hyper-wealthy while they “hide” their stolen treasure in some tax haven idyll. Just like the pirates of old.
How did this happen?
Pirates and slavery . . . or “as close to slavery as we can manage”
Somewhere there is the point at which life turns into death. Loss of blood, for example, takes one towards that point. And recently I was taken closer to that point on the occasion of a nose bleed. Because I am taking warfarin (to reduce the possibility of a a DVT following surgery last year) the nosebleed was reluctant to stop. So it was necessary to volunteer a trip to the nearby pronto soccorso, the A & E here in Italy, to experience the distinctly uncomfortable intervention of tampons being stuffed into my nasal cavities. Losing blood, on this occasion mostly swallowed, takes one towards the sense of the danger of losing ones life, it flows out (or in) with the blood. In the following days there were a couple of times I nearly fainted. I felt weak, I vomited blood: where was I on the thread between life and death? 
Is this a door I should open and walk through or is this a door to fleetingly admire and pass by? I must admit it doesn’t look like a door that is used very often. Long ago locked, jammed in its frame, remaining as a reference to the past. The past use of the building as a convent or monastery. Fifty metres back was the main arched entrance to the cloisters that have been restored, a library established, and artists or craft workshops established, those who no longer look for a religious dimension to their lives. So what is this door for? Who might use it? If one was to wait and watch would one see the ancient monk or nun who silently emerges for a late passaggiata in the moonlight, scurries on weightless feet and returns later some mission of mercy accomplished.
I rather liked the Wikipedia entry for deranged: 
In The Danish Girl the hero/heroine pushes against the boundaries of body and identity. His/her death as a result of the surgery that had the purpose of shifting identity from male to female appeared to be both tragedy and fulfilment. He went into the surgery and she came out and died “happily” in the hospital gardens. It is both interesting and strange to attempt to sum up a two hour movie in a couple of sentences. Am I able to bring in the sense of engagement I felt as I watched the story unfold. And the question of memory comes to mind. Already a certain amount of time has elapsed (a week) since I saw it. And in that week there has been a variety of reading plus some TV programmes – by the way I’m enjoying an offering from Channel 4′s Walter Presents: Kabul Kitchen – and so the optimum time for writing about the movie has probably passed; ideally perhaps a day or two after seeing the film, so that the experience is still fresh but there has also been time for reflection, perhaps conversations about it.
Thanatos, Thanatos wherefore art thou Thanatos? And for that matter WHO are you? Are you the unregenerate savagery that is always waiting to burst forth? 
After the dust has settled, after we have picked ourselves up, after we have checked to see if we are still alive, after we have looked around to examine the damage . . . what do we do then? Where do we habitually hold ourselves, where (and how) do I habitually hold myself? The question arises because of the imperative to enter into life, and after the crisis to re-enter into life.
Oh yes let’s have a metaphorical explosion! A metaphorical IED! Lots of squeaks and screams as the rockets whizz this way and that. Would you just look at that old stall, it’s been left out in all weathers, not even covered through this winter; should we burn it? Shove it out, break it up and into the hungry wood burner. At least it will keep us warm for a while.