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THE PRETTY PETTY IRONIES OF LIFE!

Observations made at Piazza Archimide, Syracuse, Sicily – 23rd August 2023

1. Directly overlooking the gushing waters of the fountain of Diana on an archaic-style renaissance flat was a balcony consumed by a Sicilian Nonna (Aged 68) beating the final whisps of dust and dirt off of an extensive piece of clothing embroidery. It was a turquoise table cloth embodying the rich imagery of succulent lemons, royal laurel leaves and elegant prints of gardenia. She battered the sheet with a flaring passion in an almost mechanical manner of motion with each whip harder than the previous one. As whisps of dust gently surfaced from the heavenly garden that painted the cloth, they fell onto the streets like glittering silt. As her battering grew, brutal and boisterous, I could picture the frustrating vexations of her mind gently mitigating as her wrinkles softened, her eyes sparkled and her faced gleamed in joy which was now beautifully decorated by the presence of a wholesome smile.
2. Diagonally under the balcony where the Nonna indulged in battering the bedsheet, sat a cult of three shrewd businessmen (Aged 29, 30 and 34). They were dressed in Armani suits that boasted a Stygian shade of ebony black with their buttons unleashed. Yet under those heavy suits of corporate puissance, were simple white shirts, the craftsmanship of a nearby tailor, that was ironed by their mothers this very morning. Though their trains of thought may have been initially rumpled by the tangled turmoil of meetings, visits and presentations, they had chosen to decelerate those trains to engage their mental muscles in a fierce game of chess. Two played while the other observed; The battle on the board was bloody and brutal, the pawns were half dead, the knights were lost and the king whose king was killed was private preparing a ploy to commit vendetta. Despite the violence and gore that stood underneath their astute eyes, the men looked as merry as larks as they sipped their shots of espresso for, they knew their real battle was just around the corner, by the office block of Syracuse.
3. A few yards ahead of the mighty trio was another table, much closer to the gleaming waters of the Fountain of Diana. On this table sat the attractive daughter of the nearby vegetable vendor (aged 18), dressed in raven red which seamlessly harmonised with her coal-coloured hair and snow-coloured skin. She was glowing under the subtle solar of the Sicilian sun and although she had the aura of a femme fatale her facial features completely juxtaposed the vicious beauty of her physique. Her forehead was as small as her ears, her nose was compressed into her skin and her smile was gentle while her eyes were glistering in a solvent of utmost purity as she starred at her lover across the table (aged 18). He was a reincarnation of Adonis, a handsome Sicilian youth of aristocratic charm. He was wearing a casual brown coat over a white shirt as instructed by his father and although he boasts a finely sculpted seductive face, it is frequently overshadowed by the evil presence of an existential demon who questions the rationality of his desire. Yet as he stares into the depths of the glistering eyes of his lover, the demon disappears into thin air. She takes a gentle bite from a green summer apple and he reciprocates. The verdant flesh of the warm apple erupts its sweet juices on the surface of their tongues.
4. As the lovers luxuriate in the sweetness of the green summer apple, a young boy (aged 14) sits on the opposite side of the fountain, absorbed in his artistic pursuit. His ear holds a dwindling pencil, while a torn sketchpad rests on his lap, and a discarded piece of rubber lies beside him. His gaze is fixated on the towering statue of Diana and her voluptuous breasts that springs fertility through out the city. Despite the surrounding allure of Diana’s classical beauty, his focus remains unwavering on his artistic endeavour. The translucent tunic of the goddess reveals hints of her form underneath, capturing the essence of sensuality and grace from classical antiquity. The boy painstakingly sketches each detail, erasing and reworking parts of his drawing in a quest for perfection that seems both fervent and unending. Occasionally, he glances up, briefly captivated by the statue’s compelling presence before returning to his task. His determination to capture Diana’s feminine splendour on paper is palpable, reflecting both his artistic skill and the depth of his admiration for the timeless beauty before him.
5. Just as the young boy is once again cast by the sensual spell of Diana, behind him in bar is a professor of mathematics (aged 56) whose table is scattered by layers of papers which are in turn scattered by paragraphs of numerical sentences and adorned by a convulsion of free-hand sketches comprised of circles, lines and polygons. Two of his perceptive male and female students (aged 21 and 22) approach the scene with glasses of limoncello to quench the scorching heat of the sun. As much as they admire and celebrate the numerical fables and tales of mathematics, they are startled to see the intricacy of the professors work and are baffled by its purpose. The professor explains to them with a smile that he is trying to compute the value of pi by inscribing multiple polygons into an arbitrary circle just as Archimedes did here in Syracuse two millennia ago. But why would the professor spend time so meaninglessly on an endeavour that has already being pursued by a man of the past the students ask. The professor explains that sometimes we must step into the feet of our fore fathers in order to appreciate their silent steps and memorialise and ameliorate our alacrity towards academia. The two students intrigued by the Ancient mathematical methods that stood beneath their eyes take a sip out their limoncellos and sit by the professor and offer to help him in his endeavour.
6. At a perpendicular angle from the mathematical trio and opposite to me was another man (aged 65), whose eyes were locked with mine. He had a strong sense of apparel wearing a coat, shirt and trouser that boasted the ultimate bliss of privilege. He seems to have had multiple companionships yet deprived of friendship. He seems to have slept with every woman in Italy yet no one has offered him the gift of love. He seems to have lived in exquisite flats yet nowhere has he felt the presence of home. His face seems to have been pricked a myriad times with the Shots of Botox that hide the many wrinkles, scars and creases that would have now engulfed his pretty face. Although his aura echoes his portrayal as an elite king of the high life in Italy, his eyes seem discoloured, discoloured by the constant bombardment of luminescent lights, alcoholic oceans alcohol and stripping poles. Here he sits at a common man’s piazza with a cigarette diffusing the frustration from his mind and a pen and paper on which he diligent write the pretty petty ironies of the sweet life of the commoners he can no longer seek nor find. It was then that I realised I was starring at a mirror, a mirror that was under a attached to a rusty metal grill.

THE UNHAPPY VOYEUR

As dusk gleams it’s golden elegance across the offices, flats and towers that highlight the metropolitan skyline of downtown New York, the unhappy voyeur sits by the now buttery-gold waters of the Hudson River perpendicular to a children’s park. Although his body faces the mighty Hudson, his eyes tilts towards the slides and swings that rise from the ground to create this fantasy of a playground. This is how he spends his daily evenings, sitting in a desolate bench overlooking the bitter-cold New York skyline.

He would usually hear a plethora of sweet sounds ranging from the saccharine commands, candied yelling and honeyed cries of innocent young children. Their sweet mellow tone would reverberate through his dying veins and stimulate the very few sugar molecules that were struggling to swim in his bloodstream which was no as cold and frigid as the frozen Hudson. Sometimes he would share the euphoria of these sounds by dazzling into a state of imagined youth feeling the pleasure of each child as he climbs onto the slide and slays down and repeats about a hundred times until his mental and physical muscles are sored and ached. However, such euphoric reciprocations were as uncommon as a warm winter’s day, for he would usually feel a wave of emptiness burgeoning upon his mind and soul. Against the gleeful and jubilant sound waves that circulate his physical space, the unhappy voyeur would question himself regarding the youth he has now lost and attempt to propose methods to recapture that youth before time ticks goodbye. Sometimes his emptiness would be so overwhelming that he would contemplate his unorthodox desire all in the spirit of recapturing is youth, though this grotesquely dire desire would soon propel him back to the moral rigidity of reality.

So, the unhappy voyeur would repress it; he would repress it so deeply until tears were now cascading down his wrinkled cheeks like waterfalls during a monsoon. The unhappy voyeur would leave the park and head to the eery dungeon he called Home which was isolated from downtown New York, much like from his youth.

As he journeyed through his mundane life, the unhappy voyeur would spend time observing the activities of the city youth through a discrete yet evident lens. For instance, one dawn he was walking out of his dingy little flat as he saw a young boy playing with a Red Balloon by a side walk whilst his mother babbled her tales with the nearby neighbours. The Young Boy’s eyes were glistering with purity as a joyous smile highlighted is visage. He looked up at the balloon and ran like a squirrel around the streets, all whist engaging in a deep conversation with the Red Balloon. He would sometimes inquire the balloon with bogus little questions or at other times instruct the balloon with silly little commands with his minute finger pointing up to the balloon’s little neck. He would then run around the street, again like a squirrel, just before his mother realised the scene behind her and dragged the little boy and his balloon home, out of the sight of the unhappy voyeur.

Another day as he walked into his flat after a meaningless day at work, his inquisitive instincts tilted his eyes towards the sight of a half open door of another flat through which sounds of intense pleasure were pulsating with his steps as he inched close to the door. Beyond the door was a sight that filled many cabinets of his mind though was yet and would never be realised.

On a comfortable bed, laid two frivolous teenagers, their faces reverberating with mixed expressions of pleasure, pain and passion. With an ephemeral ecstasy they topped each other as their playful howls intensified and traversed down the hallways of the empty apartment hurling life to all its objects and life, all except the unhappy voyeur who stood befuddled by the sight ahead of him as he closed the door and silently left with whisps of tears stopping right at the edge of his eyes.

 In the heart of New York City, where the streets buzzed with the relentless rhythm of modern life, there existed a man known only to himself as the Unhappy Voyeur. His childhood had been a cruel twist of fate, deprived of the warmth of a mother’s embrace and the camaraderie of friends. Separated from his parents at a tender age, he was left to grow up under the watchful eye of a landlady during a time when New York grappled with the highs and lows of economic uncertainty.

The Unhappy Voyeur had never known the simple joys of childhood—no playdates, no laughter-filled afternoons. His existence was a solitary one, confined to the monotony of home tutoring from a disinterested accomplice of his landlady. As other children reveled in the sweetness of youthful adventures, he remained an observer, an outsider to the vibrant tapestry of life unfolding around him.

Time marched on, and he emerged into adulthood, not through the rites of infatuation or the glow of first love, but through the mundane routine of securing a job as an office clerk in a high-end New York firm. His salary, though sufficient to meet his material needs, failed to fill the void within him. He found himself ensnared in a limbo between the allure of the high life and the familiarity of his own unremarkable existence.

His solace came not from participation but from observation. From the sterile confines of his office, he watched the city’s youth, vibrant and free, embracing the very experiences he had been denied. The streets, parks, and cafes of New York became his stage, where he silently witnessed the laughter and love he had never known. His eyes followed their every move, capturing moments of joy and spontaneity that he could only dream of.

The Unhappy Voyeur’s life was a solitary vigil, his only company the distant hum of a city that seemed to mock him with its vibrancy. His days were filled with unspoken longings and suppressed regrets, his loneliness deepening with each passing moment. He could sense that the walls of his own life were closing in, suffocating him with their weight.

As the seasons changed, so did his despair, becoming a gnawing, relentless force within him. His yearning for a life he could never have grew stronger, like a tide that swells and crashes upon the shore. The gap between his existence and the world he observed became an ever-widening chasm.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the skyline, casting long shadows over the city, the Unhappy Voyeur made a fateful decision. Overwhelmed by the weight of his unfulfilled desires and the crushing burden of his isolation, he chose to end his vigil. He walked to the edge of the city, where the neon lights and the bustling crowd seemed like distant dreams.

In the final moments of his life, he took one last look at the world he had longed for, the world of youth and joy, of laughter and love. With a heavy heart, he let go of his repressed sorrow, the loneliness that had haunted him now released into the night. As the lights of New York sparkled below, he finally found peace, but it was a peace born of a tragic and irreversible farewell to the life he had always observed but never lived.