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Day six in Rome…,and finally today I feel like I will be here for a month (even though I would need six months to pretty much see what I would like).

Tourist Occupied Rome

As evidenced in the cutrent pending fate of the famous Café Greco, it is not money that rules the world, but the human desire for the material, physical, bodily life, exaggerated into an imaginary earthly-heavenly state of being.

I would need half a year in Rome… But do I need half a year and Rome.

Byron, Goethe, and many others lived in a time when one could walk unhindered inside the Colosseum, among the ruins, along the Via Sacra. How long that has not been possible I do not know. But now in the evening, with few other tourists passing by, I, pretty much alone with the arch of Titus can also my self reflect on the quote passing of time”

Reading in Goethe and the Greeks.

There is in the educated/intellectual world an unconscious assumption that “Truth” is there out-standing and independent…to be known and in relation to.

Whereas closer to reality seems to be that there are only relations to — perhaps more quests than a finding of — ”Truth” (even if, and when what is found in the search is seldom not, at least, departmentalized, and consisting of detached, ahuman, specific facts and reasonable conclusions, or generalities of ideas).

Or, as the cover of who I believed to have been a friend page, Smith’s book, cover, and contents had it:

Yestereve: The rather interesting, well-traveled man from China I met ascending with as I learned his girlfriend up the somewhat dangerous winding road up to Monte Mario, asked if I traveled alone, and when I noticed that he upon hearing my answer of traveling alone glanced at my attire and shoes – while they were certainly well enough – I added in “I am an historian”, and that seemed to be an adequate exclamation for singularity of person and attire.

One can only hope.

With Rome amassed and unmeshed, history and buildings, added to my great ignorance of the city, lakes, floating in interest or pleasure.

I think perhaps the main experiences in Rome take place at tables.

Tell the truth, only feel I can take a couple of people seriously

Given friendly, incorrect bus, stop locations, I finally found the correct stop on my own missing the bus by one minute

I have studied and wanted to come here to the location of the Battle of Milvian Bridge for a couple of decades. One of my Facebook “friends” says how happy she is that I’m coming to my “favorite” places. Perhaps it is less that my “friends” don’t know me, than that they can’t. At least not in a way that I myself would consider close to me.

However little actually there is in fact present and possible to “absorb”, I always stay at such places until I feel like I have gotten what I can. Often uncertainly little.

The battle here likely left no scars to find, though perhaps once upon a time metal detectors…

Plans: Having learned that this original drawing is present in the Casa di Goethe museum, I will go there today. Also think to the Goethe Monument; Milvian Bridge; the location from which many travelers from the north first saw Rome: Monte Mario.

The West taught the rest how to dress.

The revealing unawareness of having your photo taken with sunglasses on

If people are more than places, must win, not at least as much attendance of the truths as the toured?

The young woman whom cut my pizza with scissors, has such an indisputably Russian face that I didn’t have to think about it. Yet it was not only the face, but also the way of make up.

Most are just not troubled enough to need answer questions like mine.

I seen thousands and thousands in a day with mutual irrelevance

ondering lanes, not knowing where I am, nor any one. and while certainly safe, a pleasurable ambling.

The handsome, friendly and helpful Roman man, tending his daughter on the wall at the Janiculum, knew really nothing of the Battle of Milvian Bridge. Not sure it helped that I tried to explain about Constantine.

Dass ich posthum interessanter gewesen sein werde als zu Lebzeiten, hat mir auf dem bisherigen Weg nicht viel geholfen. Wenn auch vielleicht ein bisschen.

Three good reasons the police won’t come.

As has been my loud sleeping wont for decades, about half an hour ago, I woke myself yelling aloud(ly) something like: “Get your guns, George Wood is hiding in… [some names]’s…room”. It was fully sensible in the dream.

Three reasons the police won’t come: this top floor studio is isolated from any neighbors’ by no shared wall and a gap floor; it’s in the middle of the night; and likely the neighbor doesn’t understand yelled English well enough.

People are unconscious of their lingual being.

I walk with mirror and difference, more to pass the time with modest curiosity, for there is really nothing I can expect in such a crowded evening

To my dismay, seem to be in limbo.

Leaving my solitary serious strict studious life behind in the woods of western NC, I find it reveals itself inside me as tending to asocial this morning with shopkeepers in Rome.