I fell out of a cherry tree...

His first novel is about Cosimo who, at the age of twelve, chooses to live out the rest of his days in the trees, spurning his father’s entreaties that he accept his rank and title of Baron, along with its manifold responsibilities. The story is extolled by the younger brother, who watches, wistfully and silently envious, as his brother pursues various crafts and adventures, including but not limited to stealing fruit, battling and slaying a ferocious wildcat, learning to hunt with a dachshund on the ground to retrieve his kills, studying Latin, reading classics, running with brigands, spying on beturbaned Turkish pirates hiding their booty, sleeping in hammocks, making clothes with animal pelts, planning an aqueduct, and courting a high class foxy blond who rides a pony and tries to enslave him.

        Well, I can tell you, I feel positively infused with the uncompromising spirit of Calvino’s protagonist. I want to live in the trees and I’m even in love with his horn-wielding blond Italian princess (it helps that I know one like her). I know what you are saying to yourself, you say, will Tim always be such a flaneur? Let us hope not. Elsewise, I’ll probably die next time I run amok with the sensual provocations of Spring and climb a tree ablaze with foliage and fertility.

        If you read that book, you’ll probably end up in a similar predicament. I say, steer clear of Italo Calvino! I mean, he was part of the reason I ended up in love with that Benedetta Italian heartbreaker in the first place. Goddamn you Calvino! May you be reviled by History! May darkness consume you! May your seed perish on the cold dead Earth! But I’ll always have your name on my lips, frequently while panting. One summer many years ago on a Ligurian beach, the Benedetta spied your name on the cover of a tome which I pretended to read while peering over the aforementioned cover at her tanned body and blond hair and pure Italian elegance. Now, years later, I haven’t succeeded in ridding myself of thoughts of her, of our conversations, of the way she shouted, non sei normale and non mi capisci. Chimera! Calvino, eh, can I call you Italo? Would that it was every person's goal, says I with my hat in my hand, to make his or her futile, brutish, and short attempt in this world have an enduring meaning. Italo, people all over the world get laid by the mere mention of your name, often only in a whisper, especially regarding the brilliance of I Numeri nella Oscurità, which I was pretending to read while the Benedetta sized me up as a prospective mate and husband.

        I landed on my feet, narrowly missing the trunk and hardy roots which would have certainly broken my bare feet. My left ankle was all swollen and the right is still a bit stiff. Wish I had been wearing my steel toed boots… I had hallified gangster lean for a bit there, but now I just do a little mosey with occasional stutter-steps.

        I heard a cracking noise, and everyone within one hundred yards, I reckon, turned their heads instantly. Then I came down in terminal velocity, with a cloud of petals enveloping me, in my hair, pockets. Not a sound was uttered, except for the boisterous laughter of a good-natured British guy who later came up to discover if I was alright. Anthony (my roommate and comrade) was in the adjacent cherry tree, which was also all ablaze with that provocative pink fecundity of Spring in the hills of Central Park. He came walking up about the time the first perturbed onlookers did. They were two twenty something girls, not at all bad looking, but I couldn't properly appraise their attributes, seeing as I was kind of embroiled in shock, pain, and chagrin. The one girl was like are you alright, and I was like, between shocked gasps for breath, I think so. Then she said, suddenly sultry, she can kiss it and make it better, but I was unable to reply. I was damn near paralyzed by shock, and Anthony stood over me, with his hands casually in his pockets, trumpeting his voice to the four winds, he’s alright, he’s just embarrassed, JUST EMBARRASSED, yeah, he’s just too embarrassed to talk, not to worry. I later managed to get on my feet, and the girls were sort of lingering in the valley, looking up at me, but i was still too shaken up and embarrassed to make any overtures. I hobbled about, exalting my woes and sometimes using Anthony as a crutch, to the Metropolitan Museum, because Anthony was intent on seeing the Gustav Courbet show. It's a pity it didn't occur to me to commandeer a wheelchair.

        The moral of the story is that, well, I don’t give a damn, live large, live literary, even if it isn't wise or prudent, take risks, and go headbutt the sky. Calvino will be there watching, make him proud, because he is still around, as an onlooker and benedicting spirit, chuckling at our pining and our folly. However, watch it when you try to emulate Italian literary personages or fall in love with deadly serious Italian ladies, you might fall...