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| Bronze Sheela-na-Gig pendant |
I started taking creative writing classes to sharpen my craft and, as an exercise, wrote a series of vignettes and short stories. Several examples have appeared here over the past year.
More risqué than my usual posts, the following pieces aren’t ones I typically publish—but there’s no reason to let them gather dust. More personal in nature, they have little to do with faith or the Italian American community.
I believe I’ve mentioned before that I don’t come from a literary or journalistic background, nor am I an academic or historian. This project was born from a desire to create something more relatable and interesting—at least to me. Tired of the same old Italian American narratives being peddled by smug academics and ideologues, I set out, in my own modest way, to contribute to a cultural renewal.
While I continue that effort, what I truly want now is to write poetry, which I hold to be the highest form of expression. Unfortunately, though I may have the heart for it, the soul of a true poet remains elusive—as evidenced by the few examples I’ve shared here in the past. Still, I’ll keep forging ahead in search of my Muse.
Accused by more than a few critics of being overly pedantic, I’ve made a conscious effort lately to temper that tendency. With these posts, I’m also trying to broaden my range and explore different genres. Since taking the classes, I have especially enjoyed revisiting old family stories and memories. Thankfully, I’ve been blessed with a full and interesting life—so, God willing, there will be more to come.
I’ve enjoyed writing these pieces. I hope you enjoy reading them.
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| Shane MacGowan (1957-2023) |
It was the late 90s, and the summer air over Randall’s Island smelled of beer and fried food. The Guinness Fleadh Festival was in full roar—fiddles, citterns, and bodhráns thumping as thousands gathered beneath a hazy New York sky to celebrate Irish music and culture.
When The Pogues took the stage beneath the big tent, the crowd surged forward as if pulled by gravity itself. And there was Shane MacGowan—leaning into the microphone, ragged, magnificent, impossibly alive.
Midway through the show, the crowd suddenly split open. People laughed and stumbled aside as a massive man lurched through the clearing, drenched in beer and sweat, wearing nothing but tighty whities and a grin.
“Kelly!” he bellowed again and again before disappearing back into the amused, swallowing sea of bodies.
Not long after, as if summoned by symmetry, a young woman staggered past in her bra and panties, copper hair wild, shouting, “Patrick!” Her search was no more successful. The crowd folded behind her, too, reclaiming both stories without resolution.
Between sets, near the vendors’ tents, my girlfriend was trying on rings. A silver brooch caught the light—a sheela-na-gig. [1] It was beautiful. I turned it over in my hand—its ancient, stark symbolism unmistakable.
Devotion felt more important at the time, so, unable to afford both, I bought her a claddagh ring. [2] Certain symbols—love and loyalty—meant permanence if you believed hard enough.
In hindsight, of course, the sheela-na-gig understood things better than I did.
At a house party on Long Island Sound, my girlfriend and I slipped away to go skinny-dipping. The water was calm, the night clear, and the moon was bright and full. Frolicking at first, we drifted into each other’s arms beneath its light—until, mid-moment, the water around us flared to life in an eerie fluorescent green.
A swarm of jellyfish had bloomed all at once, lighting up the shallows in an aquatic glow. Panicked, we thrashed our way back to shore, making quite a scene and drawing the attention of the entire party. As we streaked across the beach toward our clothes and the house, the revelers rewarded our ignoble exit with a generous round of applause. We weren’t stung—but we were red with embarrassment.
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| Lady Godiva, J.J. Lefebvre (1890) |
A Stolen Glance and Unwelcome Encore
Stepping outside the noisy bar to take a call from a friend, I happened to glance up and saw a beautiful young woman in the second-floor apartment opposite, fresh from the shower, calmly toweling her hair in all her naked glory. Oblivious to my presence, she stood there with an ease that was almost statuesque. I turned away out of respect and told my friend what I’d just witnessed. Laughing, he said I was a better man than he—he wouldn’t have looked away.
Tempted, I stole a second glance. To my dismay, the window now framed a naked man instead, presenting me with the full and decidedly unwelcome monty. I let out an involuntary groan and relayed the turn of events. My friend cackled and said, “That’s what you get for being a peeping Tom.” [3]
There was a time—before I found my way back to the Church—when the nights belonged to chasing skirt, cocktails, and loud music. Not long ago, I had the chance to step back into that world for a bachelor party. I passed—and it made me think of those nights again.
My friends and I would sometimes start the night pregaming at cabarets or burlesque clubs where women in heels knew how to pivot on a dime and make you feel "special" for the length of a song. The air carried perfume, gin, and the faint electrical buzz of anticipation.
Yes, it was decadent. Lewd at times, but hardly the last days of Caligula, no matter how people like to dramatize it. It had rhythm. It had choreography. It had a wink—feather boas, pasties, and fans. Long gloves peeled away finger by finger. Stockings rolled down with ceremonial patience.
The women weren’t rushing toward nudity; they were conducting it. It felt closer to performance art. Back then, the tease was the point. Suggestion carried more voltage than exposure.
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| (L) Beverly Powers in Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961). (R) Commissioned artwork for From Dusk Till Dawn (1996) by Frank Frazetta |
It lived somewhere between Beverly Powers’ playful striptease in Breakfast at Tiffany’s and the feverish heat of Salma Hayek’s dance at the Titty Twister in From Dusk Till Dawn. Glamour and danger, laughter and sweat. A joke told with a hip, a threat delivered with a smile.
We didn’t go for politics. We didn’t pretend it was empowerment. We went because we were young men who wanted to see beautiful, naked women. There’s no halo to hang on that. No clever excuse. It was appetite.
After the show, we’d buy drinks and talk to the girls—discussing art, music, and onstage mishaps. Some were sharp, funny, and more disciplined than the men watching them. Others, not so much. The fantasy stayed on stage. Offstage, it was just people. Looking back now, I can see how easily a young man mistakes spectacle for meaning.
I don’t romanticize it. But neither do I pretend it was the end of civilization. It was a chapter—perfumed, reckless, artful in its own way. A theater of flesh and spotlight.
And like any theater, the curtain fell.
~ Giovanni di Napoli, March 21st, The Feasts of Bl. Maria Candida of the Eucharist and San Benedetto da Nursia
Notes
[1] The sheela-na-gig is often interpreted as a medieval warning against lust, its stark imagery reminding the faithful of sin’s moral and spiritual consequences. Others believe such figures served a more ancient apotropaic purpose—warding off evil, much like a gargoyle.
[2] The claddagh ring symbolizes love, loyalty, and friendship, expressing a commitment rooted in faithfulness and enduring devotion.
