May 4, 2005 Scratching the chalkboard Centro Culturale, my school, still uses chalkboards. The chalk-covered hands and labor-intensive erasing that often leaves faded remnants of layer after layer of information piques my art-making self. What a sucker for the dirt of creativity. Literally. This final semester is not as lively as the other two, but our professor is intelligent and helpful. My classmates, however, are not very energetic, nor are we a cohesive group. Other than myself and Bonnie, whom love to share and talk and question, we have a tall, blond Russian doctor-in-training who speaks like the Spaniard, speedily and impossibly indecipherable to my half-deaf ears. The tall, black, curly-headed African-American from Oregon has been here for several years, on a mission to literally spread word of the Gospel to young Italian students. Yuka, my
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