Colpito dal fulmine

Even though I can barely speak it - and even have trouble understanding at times - I am infatuated with the Italian language. Often when people laud this work of art, they refer to its sound. And to be sure, it is music to the ears of an English-speaker imprisoned by the curt, monosyllabic gasps he has been taught to produce and appreciate. I think that somewhere on a scale from angel music to German, the English language leans to the wrong extreme.

However, Italian's beauty is not limited to the tonal ecstasy that has chilled opera houses for centuries, found its way into the language of our modern music, and sent lovers into serenade - singing Andrea Bocelli's "Con Te Partiro" (which beloveds play on repeat) by default.

It is in the grammar. There is something romantic (*snickers*, I swear, last bad pun!) about conjugation -- action and expression directed to the audience, personalized, linguistically reverent. And there is a sensuality to male and female voices dancing on the page as two become one in writing.

It is in the structure. Avoiding much of the narcissism of English, it contently submits to the real, external nature of pleasure. An American speaks like a god and claims "I (do not) like/love" -- that he does or doesn't give his approval to something. An Italian speaks like a creature and claims "mi piace/incanta" -- that something gives him pleasure, enchantment.

It is in the idioms. Now, you could fairly call me out on this and charge my claim as presumptive. To be sure, I barely know the language -- let alone enough idioms to justly compare -- however, one of them in particular has struck me (*more snickers!*, ok I lied).

...colpito dal fulmine...

Literally, it means "struck by lightning", but its equivalent idiom in English would be "love at first sight". The Italian version is vastly superior. The English version may speak sufficiently to what happens to somebody, but it does not even try to describe by metaphor in a few words what one feels. Spoken from a person who has never been struck by lightning.

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The sun never came out this morning. And given that I had left the blinds of my east-facing window open, I am surprised that I did not notice that nature's alarm had failed me. Slowly but surely, however, nature's back-up seeped in through the screen door like elevator music. Though such melody was unexpected, I was neither awoken nor entranced. However, the distant, distorted, yet unmistakable beat of a bass drum soon followed, reminding me that I was not there for smooth jazz. The beat defined itself, pulsating into a rhythm that I could feel more than hear. Somewhere in time the crescendo went from curiosity to compulsion, so I gazed into the chamber, tore through the double doors, and took my seat in the balcony. The air erupted into waves of fury that bolted across the amphitheater with a sound so loud that it was blinding. Smooth jazz had given way to orchestral majesty as strings echoed, winds resonated, and brass waited for cue. And there was the conductor - so small, so far away, yet so present, so in control as he maintained perfect organization of mayhem, resolutely waving that invisible rod, delighting in every sforzando. And there were the cymbals - fearsome weapons of war ready to crack the air in two whenever fortissimo wasn't enough. These terrors could terrorize the terror inside of me, and how I loved them. I feasted on every gunshot, counting the rounds off as best I could and eventually realizing my folly - whoever tried to count the notes of a symphony?

As the musical maelstrom continued, I feared for my life. I thanked God for the shelter of the balcony as His chamber raged in front of me. Yet, I could not believe the sensation my soul was experiencing. The realization that I hated my shelter. I hated seeing fear without feeling fear. I hated hearing terror without tasting terror. I was a spectator of the fury, but I wanted to be the target! I wanted to run out into the arena and stick my head right in between the descending blow of the cymbals. As a pouring rain irrigated the spectacular garden of sound, I wanted to be stuck in the middle of it, dripping wet, completely exposed with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. I wanted to feel the hairs on my neck stand on end as the rubber in my shoes froze to the earth. I wanted my heart to fall at the speed of light into my stomach because of knowing exactly what was about to happen to me at time equals zero. And then I wanted it to shoot up into my throat as sparks fly in front my eyes and I get struck by lightning.

Questa mattina - per la prima volta - volevo essere colpito dal fulmine.