Life, times, adventures and misadventures of Uccello Rosso

Though there are inumerable intermediate positions, promoted and maintained by equally inumerable authors, there are two distinct and possibly polar theories of travel which Uccello Rosso entertained as he sat beneath the umbrella of a small table outside of the bar. One could get to know as much as possible about the intended destination, where to go, what to see, what to eat, the history, the climate, the geography, the yearnings and prejudices of the local population; conversely one could just show up and explore the setting with the empty tablet championed by a French philosopher whose name was stored in a corner of memory temporarily closed.

Hence the equivocation with which Uccello Rosso eyed the adjacent bookstore, filled as it was, with shelves of books about the Portuguese capital of Lisbon. Other than the fact that the language spoken here was Portuguese Uccello Rosso had no particular image of Lisbon. He could place it in the general category of European capitals which implied a general kind of architecture and statuary, but who the statues might be of, or where the various administrative buildings might be located or the significance of their architects and stylistic nuances were very empty pages.

©2009 Miles DeCoster

Uccello Rosso was walking down Borgo Pinti on a fine autumn afternoon. There were certain advantages, he felt, to being an imaginary creature. For one thing, you could, if you so chose (and as was presently the case), walk down a quiet street in the middle of the Italian Rennaissance, perhaps even cross paths with one of the legends of the age, a Brunelleschi, or Donatello, or even Leonardo and exchange a tip of the hat or a knowing nod. Could you not even sit down for a beer and a pizza with one of these luminaries? Not a real pizza, of course, like you might get at a pizzeria in Chicago, as Columbus is only just now en route to his discovery of  a land generally unknown to Europeans, but home to the tomato, key ingredient in tomato sauce and hence pizza. So, maybe no pizza, but nonetheless one could sit for a spell in a pleasant piazza and share a glass of chianti, if not a beer, and a tasty repast of some sort with one of the aforementioned luminaries and watch the torching of the villainous monk Savonorola or marvel at the hoard of workers slowly rolling the David into its spot in front of city hall and wonder at his leather breeches, he who was later to be so famous for his profound nudity.

Being an imaginary creature meant that you might also be immune to the various plagues that infested such an otherwise pleasant and interesting epoch, though in this, as in all things, you were ultimately dependent on the imaginings of the one who imagined you. Yet, you hoped, that by dent of your unassuming and optimistic outlook, you might be spared most, if not all of the unpleasantness life has to offer and that your maker might see fit to place you generally in fortuitous settings and interesting times. Might not a character, once imagined, have some small influence on their maker?

© 2009 Miles DeCoster