The Cleaning Chorus

At present, I'm hiding from my cleaning lady, Lulu, and her children. I hate to say it but I can recognize the deliciousness of this predicament even as I shrink into my blankets. Lulu and her children are to be known as The Clean Family- they are a package set, three for the price of one. They come every Tuesday and Friday (how much mess can we make in three days?) and proceed to bang about, scuffing up each wooden plank and ceramic tile. Don't get me wrong- Lulu gets down. She mops, she soaks, she soaps, she twirls, she polishes, she sharpens. But her kids stomp and storm and hurricane and whirling dervish like they've waited the entirety of their lives for this new yuppie playground and by god, they will enjoy every minute of it. While they thrash around like dancing torpedos, I hide under my feather comforter, Patty snoring across from me. In my fantasies, I man up. I stroll into the kitchen in a fur coat, cigarello dangling from my lips, and blueprint of the property in my back pocket. I sip my coffee confidently and stride about, careless of their presence in my somewhat limited space. And yet, I never do this. Instead, I slip into the snow with Patty at my heels, and slip even more quietly back into the front door. I give the dog her requisite chicken treat and pad upstairs to my room, cursing the vacuum's raspy hum and the sky's colorless color. I hear everything just outside: the telephone poles crackling, the washer cycling, the little boy hastily pounding his nintendo upstairs. I could enter The Cleaning Chorus and make some rumblings of my own but I'm not there yet. For now, I remain yuppified, the polite white girl who reaches delicately for a piece of fruit before retreating to a cave of her own design- a cavewoman without fire or fight.

Milk of Wonder

This is one of my favorite passages from literature, for life:

"Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalk really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees-he could climb it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder."

I'm guilty as charged: always searching for the ladder, for magical elevation into the wild blue yonder. I'm going to India in January (!!!) and I'm hoping that I'll gulp down some milky, wondrous, sweetness- the type that refreshes and energizes, and makes me see the world anew.

Here's to hoping!

Sparks

GENERAL IDEAS OF INTEREST:

-girls, art, avoidance of stereotype---> using art/ making art to avoid stereotype
-monsters, magical creatures
-bathtubs
-whimsy in real life situations
-TV (TV Girl songs, girl who drags TV around everywhere, “tv told me how to feel and now I can't feel nothing real”, TV culture, why do we like it? What is it doing or not doing? I'm living in TV though I never watch it)

ALSO:

whimsy, safety, beauty, tangibility, intangibility, romance, non-romance, elegant emptiness, portly fullness, wine, sleep, sex, pens, grocery stores, shrimp, TV, madness, Hamlet, ham sandwich, Shakespeare, early mornings, camping, camping with Shakespeare, determined resistance to superficiality, pimples, follicles, bubbly water, elegance, shoes, cords, cameras, stripes, monuments, a place unknown, a silly smile, your face underwater, mascara, eyes, lashes, music and Stevie Wonder

Onion Rings

CLOSE YOUR EYES AND IMAGINE:

Sam walks down the cobblestone street, intent upon his onion rings. They are airy discs of fried delight, heaped on top of each other, waiting to be consumed. Sam bought these onion rings on the corner, from an Indian man with a silk suit and a yellow caravan. The Indian man was energetic--twirling the deep fryer and splashing hot grease all over himself in excitement. Sam wanted to ask him: "how do you know anything about onion rings, Indian man?" but he didn't for fear of being politically incorrect. After all, he tries to be graceful.

Sam reaches for an onion ring and brings it to his nose. He inhales and it's heavenly: sweet onion inside and crisp dough surrounding. He takes a big bite, and onion juice trickles down his chin and onto his skinny tie. He winces, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and takes another bite.

Sam can't control himself; he eats one and another and another. He keeps up his pace, traveling down the cobblestones, toward the creek, when he perks up. He hears music, full and soothing, just behind McSweeney's garage. His legs go without him; he's helpless but to follow his body through puddles, past the garage, and into the woods.

The music gets louder. It's a strange symphony, all organ and flute and piano and cymbal. The forest is lush, voluptuous, heaving with rain and velvet peacocks. "Peacocks in London?" he wonders to himself before pulling the pregnant branches apart with his greasy hands, going deeper into the music. A boxing ring appears before him. Two men box silently, jabbing and ducking with leather gloves and jutting teeth. They are flanked on all sides by women. These are beautiful women with big blooms of hair and diamonds on their tongues. They cheer for the men, clapping and shouting wordlessly.

Sam looks down into the empty cardboard container. Were those onion rings magic? Suddenly, the container shoots forward out of his hands. The box twists and mutates until it's a golden accordion, with leather strap and ivory keys. The golden accordion settles onto Sam: the leather strap zooms behind his back and the keyboard adjusts to his hands. He licks his fingers and begins to play, enchanted by his newfound musicality.

From his yellow caravan, the Indian man twirls the deep fryer and smiles to himself.

Poison Candy Flowers

Inspired by Allen Ginsberg and "Howl," I started flipping through my journal. I found some scribblings on Cindy Sherman- a contemporary artist and photographer. Sherman is interested in all things simulacral: copies with no original, mass memory, disappearance of the artist/ person behind the mask of stereotype. Sherman is a feminist-I know you're envisioning hairy armpits and Birkenstocks but bare with me. She's interested in the Real World pressure for girls to conform to filmic stereotypes--> fake eyelashes and big breasts and simulated conversation. Sherman examines woman as "spectacle" and "symptom," and as the passive object of male attention. In some ways, to paraphrase her photography and artistic philosophy, characters are constantly constructed in film but also in life through costume, clothing, and manicured nails. Sherman's photography is eerie, and whimsical, and often familiar. She fools you, harkening to previous artistic products though never directly referencing anything. She creates false memories. I'm fascinated by her and by artifice in general. I always have trouble putting together outfits or buying clothes because with any purchase, a commitment is made to a genre or style or icon that I don't necessarily align with. Of course, a shirt is just a shirt...except when it's not. I'm hung up on fantasies. After all, in another life I was matador, leopard with gold bell, Botticelli beauty, burnt toast, gold necklace, Napoleon and Richard Nixon. The point is that when we reapply mascara or cut our toenails, we're secretly trying to tell a story. We're trying to make our own legend and fiction. It's exciting and exhausting...but of course, womanhood is both of those in equal measure.

Beastly

I've been spending an exorbitant amount of time on facebook, hating myself as I refill my cup. The problem is this: a superficial lack of space for creative outpouring. I find myself fidgety, changing my profile picture, changing my status. Sometimes it feels like facebook is the only place to express one's self. This is obviously bogus. I hereby resolve to be better and facebook less. It's boring. So what's been up? Friday I traveled to DC and engaged in some questionable behavior (see: dancing at Rock n' Roll Hotel, two stepping in the street, accidentally bumping uglies with a tranny on the Metro) with some Southern boys before hitting the National Mall for the Rally to Restore Sanity. It was an excellent experience, complete with witty signage ("Less Sarah Palin, More Para Sailing"/ "We Could Talk Politics or We Could Eat Chocolate") and youthful energy. I was impressed with the diversity of the crowd. As it turns out, laughing appeals to all ages, and this is a beautiful thing. We sped home for Halloween festivities--> Sunday we went to Fell's Point for the Mardi Gras-esque madness that we've come to rely on. With lack of funds and foresight my dear roommate and I decided to be Beauty and the Beast (obviously I was Beast with Gap fur jacket and Google blanket tied tight round ma neck). We bopped around, a motley crew of ballerina and Steve Jobs and sluts and Birds of War and cats and Cat-in-the-Hat and cavewoman. Sometimes it's nice to place yourself in the middle of a swirling vortex just to test your limits, your capacity for chaos, and disorder. I was dizzy with exhaustion but enjoying the splendor nonetheless. Now it's time to grease my gears and surge forward into creative projects. It's almost wintertime-I don't know what that means. I do know that a few weeks ago, I combed each level of the library, pulling books off the shelf at random, and checking out a fat stack. Maybe I should do that again. It sounds good right? As usual, it's all "what is life and how should I live it?" up in my head. I should work on that.

Gold Pinky Ring

My grandmother has a new beau. His name is Bob and he has wiry chest hair and a gold pinky ring. I like Bob. I like his wry Jewish humor and his suspenders and his outdated masculinity though these are just my first impressions. My mother has sent me to do reconnaissance and so I'm sitting on my grandmother's couch, for a little Q & A. Grandmother is immaculate as usual, with hair curled under and a Chanel jacket. Her coffee cup is precarious on the edge of the table, and smudged with the faintest hint of lipstick. She takes a sip of black coffee and looks to me.

“What are your intentions with my grandmother?” I ask. Bob coughs and laughs simultaneously. I can almost see his chest hair curling in discomfort. “Intentions? Well. I'm not sure.” He twists the gold pinky ring. I look into my own coffee cup and involuntarily imagine these two in bed. Oh God. Do old people have sex? How does it work? Does my grandmother gingerly peel off her clothes, letting her matronly brassiere fall to the floor? Does Bob light a Cuban cigar afterwards, and recount his afternoons spent with Allen Ginsburg in the hood?

Maybe it's more beautiful than my embarrassed daydream, maybe their romance is a strange rose, a color I couldn't understand. They have each scaled their own paper maiche mountains, and erected monuments—those particular golden structures built upon childbirth and filed taxes and accumulated life experience. They are old, and this has to mean something.

I realize that I've been dreaming coffee dreams and look up. I see into Bob's gray eyes and then past them. I see myself in a spaceship, propelled through endless seasons and stars. In some future age, I'll grow swollen with babies and braid my hair long and move to an unknown city and taste forbidden fruits and wake up one day with wrinkled skin. I'll be old like this. “You know, Bob, I love your pinky ring,” I say, eager to share myself with him. He takes it off and presses it into my palm, about to tell a story.

Autumn of the Patriarch

I suffered through Shakespeare's Richard III for two hours before running into the bathtub's open arms. I can't concentrate. I find myself staring into trees, brewing tea, puttering in my apartment. What's happened? It's not that I'm bored. I'm newly inspired by film, theatre, the weather changing. It's just that sometimes I find my heart racing, sighing, "please please do something else." Some questions on my brain:

1) is imagination genetic?
2) WTF- what am I going to do next year?
3) are we going towards perfection?

I'm still restless, antsy, confused. I could read the news or watch a film or finish this play. I could do lots of things.

Duende

Justin Vernon of Bon Iver fame has a new gig called Gayngs. In their jam 'spanish platinum' a disembodied voice sings I keep my wings taped down/ and my heart in a jar. I've been thinking that over. When college ends and the bubble bursts am I going to tape my wings down and put my heart, my true desires, on the shelf? Or am I going to be bold? I have a cozy little nest egg and starry eyed resolutions but what am I going to do with myself? My one true passion is writing; I'm excited each morning to cook my half-baked revelations. I want to express myself in cataclysmic, spontaneous, eloquent mode, and I'm eager to move into new vistas. I want immortality through creativity. Someone is rolling their eyes right now and guess what, I see you! Look, ok, I know I'm a dreamer. The future is uncertain and the economy is unkind but with this unrelenting optimism, I feel like maybe it will all work itself out. Last August I saw a church sign proclaiming "the grace and hope mission" and that's what I'm all about. I'm hopeful though never graceful. But maybe words will get me there- to that place where wings fall open and cut the sky.

The Hanging TV

The bathing continues- this is a short scene I just cooked up.

[A girl lays in a bathtub. The bathtub is antique with golden claws. She is on the verge of a mental break down and speaks to no one in particular.]

I've read the Bible and tasted fresh mango but I'm uninspired. I've scrubbed myself with sea salts and loofah sponges and I've combed my hair but I'm unclean. I've stretched my legs and polished the windows and kissed his lips but I'm loveless. I used to think I could improve. I made gravity bongs and hollowed out encyclopedias, saving the facts for a rainy day. I lay in cotton sheets, just thinking for days, until I couldn't stand my own smell, until the last drop of water had escaped down the pipes. I enjoy myself in this bathtub but I'm rotting from the inside out. I'm hoping this here tub will catch my insides. Porcelain is durable, right? It's clean. I could be clean. I think I could be clean. No. I take that back. I've done everything. I've gone to yoga and given up dessert. I've held babies and fed the masses. I used to think I could be a martyr. I thought I could be a queen with curling hair and a heart dripping gold. I saw men falling before my feet, tasting the dry dust as they surrendered to inevitable passions. I was going to be something. Now, I'm not so sure.

Fuck it. I'll be a queen. I'll cut my own grass and grow vegetables, mindless of the world outside. I'll rot in a greenhouse of my own design as twilight falls. I'll give up books and art and television. No, not television. I'll hang a TV from a glass ceiling and watch the flickering blue light. I'll watch it from down below. I don't need his dusty kiss or a way out. I just need this here porcelain.

Future Fotos

Sometimes I find myself prematurely nostalgic. I'll pull myself out of a moment to relish it, preserve it, turn it over in my mind's eye before it vanishes, leaps, changes. Lately, this has taken the form of future fotos. Last Sunday I saw myself in a future foto: draped over the lap of a friend, hair falling into my eyes, laughing in vacant, cool air. I saw a hypothetical moment in the plastic of a polaroid. It was the strangest thing. Photos are, of course, a means of encapsulation. Their beauty is in their summation and precision. But of course, a photo can never properly summarize a moment (can any art form appropriately capture the majesty of one perfect minute?) so why am I pushing and shrinking the present into a future and inert replica? I have no idea. I only know that of late, photography is speaking to me. The click of the camera, the weight of the body in my hands- it's immediate. I guess immediacy and grace are the two things I'm lusting for. Tomorrow is my 22nd birthday (and by tomorrow I mean in 14 minutes). I hope to have the sort of day/ night/ revelatory sequence that keeps me satiated all the way through---> the type of day that includes no future fotos. Do you know what I mean?

Technologic

A certain tobacco-toothed teacher informed me that my generation is the most empowered ever. It's the Information Age! he proclaimed. You're empowered by the knowledge circulating in the air! You can learn anything and everything! Go go go! I suddenly felt guilty. It's year four of college and what do I have to show for it? Let's see. I'm versed in hang-over remedies (coconut water), moving swiftly through BWI airport security (shoes with no laces), and speed reading. My interest has been piqued here and there but, in truth, I'm not sure that I'm a smarter girl than when I arrived at Johnny Hop three autumns ago. Maybe I'm being hard on myself. Maybe I'm having a half-baked existential crisis brought on by too much coffee and too much Pinter. I think not. As I approach graduation, my relentless optimism and interest in all things magical needs to wed itself to practical knowledge and know how. In the spirit of this, I skipped through the library and checked out all of the volumes that interested me. It was the Summer of Yes--> now onto the Autumn of Ideas. If I want to be more culturally savvy, more informed, a better cocktail party compatriot, I need to step up my game. It's now or never.

Jalapeno Popper

I was sitting in a certain frigid classroom today, plotting my escape. I won't say which classroom I was in or which Professor was speaking, only that I was cold and the heat outside was beckoning to me. It's the first week of senior year and I'm ready to put my head down and soak up my last few months of ACADEMIA before the REAL WORLD comes clamoring forth to steal me away (FYI I shivered when I read that last sentence) but I'm lacking in inspiration. What do I mean? Well, over the years I've tried to pepper my course requirements with the random cleverly titled anthropology/ sociology/ english classes. I've studied Moby Dick and Messianic cultures and the inception of Hip Hop in America. Thus far, none of my classes this fall are proving to be of that variety. Sure, they will be informative and rigorous and undoubtedly my brain will swell to the size of a cantaloupe during finals time. And yet, when I look at my weekly schedule, my blood refuses to boil and my heart does not race with anticipation. I think it's time to throw in one of those jalapeno popper classes, the kind that turns your level headed friend's attention and makes them say "what the fuck? what do you even DO in that?" When the Apocalypse comes, I want to be armed with thorough knowledge of the eclectic and taste for adventure.

Ra Ra Sis Boom Ba

Senior Year Begins! Let's do this thing. The lyrics of "Us" in honor of Autumn and madness unfolding:


They made a statue of us
And it put it on a mountain top
Now tourists come and stare at us
Blow bubbles with their gum
Take photographs have fun, have fun

They'll name a city after us
And later say it's all our fault
Then they'll give us a talking to
Then they'll give us a talking to
Because they've got years of experience
We're living in a den of thieves
Rummaging for answers in the pages
We're living in a den of thieves
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious

We wear our scarves just like a noose
But not 'cause we want eternal sleep
And though our parts are slightly used
New ones are slave labor you can keep

We're living in a den of thieves
Rummaging for answers in the pages
We're living in a den of thieves
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious

They made a statue of us
They made a statue of us
The tourists come and stare at us
The sculptor's marble sends regards
They made a statue of us
They made a statue of us
Our noses have begun to rust
We're living in a den of thieves
Rummaging for answers in the pages
Were living in a den of thieves

And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious
And it's contagious

Roses

Hello, blogosphere! I'm back from Outer Space, imprinted with stars and recovering from theatrical delirium. So much has happened (a sold out show and friends and family from across the globe and complete satisfaction and intense heat and airplanes looping and my brain fried like rice)

I'll just write down these things and pray that you know what you i mean:

fish tacos and gypsy jazz and frank lloyd wright's unity temple and a rome reunion and fever teeth and late late nights and sweat and adrenaline and laughing and leopard shoes and garbage bags filled with old clothes and i was so afraid to let it all go but i did and beer and finally sleeping and summer of yes and block parties and remixed beats and something vaguely familiar and blooming roses and don't you believe they get better with age i do and a black curtain and discovering what I didn't know I had.

My roses are still blooming in a vase downstairs and maybe one day i'll have words beautiful as their petals-

oxygen tank

the candle burning and the clothes heaping and the bones cracking and the man on fire with oxygen tank illuminated and the ink bleeding and the sheets sweating and the night slick like oil and vinegar on wilted leaves and the record playing and the typewriter waiting waiting to be played like so many accordians strapped across the chest of a young boy

The Diet

Sometimes my dad leaves articles on my sink- a subtle prompt, a whisper ("be intellectual, remy!). This morning I took the bait. The article was entitled "6 Items or Less" and it was about giving one's self a clothing diet, wearing 6 items or less for a full month. My interest was piqued. After all, I have heaps of clothing that I both loathe and fear. I can't even bring myself to unfold for anxiety of what's waiting in those piles. The trouble is that at core, I'm not a minimal girl. Don't get me wrong, I favor a white t-shirt and jeans over most else but I like the promise of being chic, being inimitable, being me, and that sometimes calls for blue suede shoes, a sequined vest, a pair of shorts from mom's closet. I'd like to detox in every way possible (eat salads, drink tea, wear a turban and stick my face over a pot of boiling water) but at this juncture, I can't do it. I haven't riffled through the stacks and found the perfect sweater and I haven't smoothed out my heel walk. Were I to strip down to 6 items for a full month, I worry I'd lose that crucial process of becoming. The clothes don't make the man but that fur jacket never hurt.

Speaking of clothes, what am I going to wear for FT opening night? Send suggestions my way.

Library Card

I just watched "An Education," and it thrilled me just as I hoped it would. Nothing charms like a school girl and Carey Mulligan was no exception with her perfect complexion and tweed jacket and crest. The older man motif isn't particularly appealing to me but the idea of an education is- a wild ride that sends your insides crashing (whether it come from book or beast). I'm inspired to seek out some wisdom. If a tree falls in the woods, did it really fall? If a girl picks up a book without a camera crew, is it less meaningful?

Eskimo Pie

Life is circuitous, wouldn't you agree? I took a trip to Chicago's Field Museum and stood transfixed in front of all things Eskimo: seal boots, fur coats, netted eye protectors, and the like. Today, as I was riffling through a stack of underpriced books at Village Discount, I found a hard cover edition of Peter Freuchens "Book of the Eskimos." I bought the book for a quarter and brought it home, eager to see how the Eskimos live. The book was charmingly paternalistic ("they wear their hair in a low bun on the back of the head, kept in place with a bit of string or ribbon. It is long, straight, and blue-black, loose strands framing a broad oval face whose eyes seem to brim with savage, unashamed passion") but entertaining nonetheless. I find that passions and interests seem to converge in knots this way; loose threads come together and solidify when you least expect it. I'm excited about this Eskimo account. Is it the idea of igloos? Fur parkas and a life of mysterious ice athletics? I can't say. I do know that the book came from Highwood Public Library. It's long overdue.

You Do You

"One day I am going to grow wings, a chemical reaction, hysterical and useless"- it's one of my favorite lines. I think I'm growing wings, bursting through myself, and stretching into the atmosphere, and I owe it all to the Johns Hopkins University for bestowing their gracious funds upon me. In the last few months, each week has provided secret setbacks, hidden roadblocks. Fuck! I often thought. I have to write a script! I have to find actors! I have to hire a space! And the challenges keep coming but I find myself thrilled and delighted by the prospect of engaging with a full scale theatrical project. I've found my actors and by the grace of God, they love each other and are engaging the script in unexpected ways, imbuing it with energy and comedy that I didn't write. On top of that, so many other friends have brought their gifts to the table (Emily and Anna for costume, Mare for set) and thanks to their creativity and dedication, we are getting shit done and doing it in style. It's Summer of Yes and I'm having a ball. It's still difficult for me to relinquish tasks and delegate but I'm learning to trust the instincts of others, I'm learning about that unusual chemical reaction we call collaboration.

Celebrando

Notes from my notebook// words from my twisted brain bubble:

1. "shall i believe that unsubstantial death is amorous" (romeo and juliet)

2. interactions coming too quickly

3. misshapen tubes, squeeze me out

4. glass of sapphire ice

5. database lipstick candle scissor ouji board mouf of da jabba walkee whachu hiding in that mouth

6. existential exhaust, she says, unwrapping gummy bears

7. the ice cream dreams of ice cream

8. you sneeze absurdly incorrectly

9. the real biography of a fake girl

Sculpted

I never wrote about my trip to South Haven! Did you know that Michigan is filled with treasures? Dutch farms and raspberry fields and dunes and junkyards and bodies of water? I didn't. It was superb, all bike riding, painting, cake eating, blueberry picking, and mini van driving. We went primarily for Sunset Junque- a renowned antique spot filled with everything on the Lord's green earth. I'm talking leather jackets and space suits and confessionals and rusted tools and all things ripe for eccentric endeavors. Mare is a talented set designer so she helped me gather some pieces for Fever Teeth and we went back to her grandparents' spot to scrape/ clean/ paint my precious new items. We were a little traumatized by the white haired CEO of Sunset Junque (he had a beard like Poseidon and overcharged with zeal) but we quieted our nerves with a blueberry shake and a rock in the hammock. "If you have the time, I highly recommend it."

Bear Claw

I like taking baths so I wrote this scene.

Lights up:
The girl is concealed inside a porcelain bathtub. The bathtub is antique with golden claws and large handles. The girl lies back, sticking her toes inside the faucet at random. Bocelli’s “Time To Say Goodbye” plays softly in the background. The girl addresses her mother and the audience at different points.

GIRL: I love this song, don’t you? Andrea Bocelli is blind and I always like to imagine him with eyes closed, his fingers moving through the air as he orchestrates. I don’t know if he really does that but he should.

MOTHER: What are you doing in there, girl? It’s been an hour.

GIRL: It’s been two, mother! And don’t even think of coming in here.

MOTHER: And what if I did?

GIRL: Just don’t! Can’t a girl get any privacy? This is my place. I can’t be touched here.

MOTHER: You know when I was a girl I bathed with my mother! She would scrub my back; it was so lovely. It was quality time!

GIRL: You grew up in the seventies. It was different then. You had long black hair and breasts to the floor. I’ve seen the photographs. My mother singed her eyelashes off with a hash pipe one summer afternoon in a field of cows. She could hear cars humming on the highway nearby.

MOTHER: I did not! Don’t tell people that!

GIRL: Just don’t come in here!

MOTHER: What do you do in there? You’re awfully mysterious.

GIRL: I don’t do anything. I just think and read and eat the occasional scoop of ice cream.

MOTHER: Can’t I come in? I could wash your toes. I could soap your hair. I could shave your legs.

GIRL: Don’t you have anything better to do?

MOTHER: I just want to be close to you!

GIRL: Jesus Christ. I should never leave this tub. After all, I have everything I need: exfoliants and soaps and magazines and the dreams that tangle in my head. I once brought an entire box of popsicles into this tub and sat for four hours; my lips and tongue were blue. My insides were all pruny, like shriveled fruit. I adored it.

MOTHER: All that cleanliness isn’t good for you! You should go outside and run around in the mud! We could take a boat ride together!

GIRL: You’ll say anything to get me out there with you.

MOTHER: I’m lonely!

GIRL: I can’t be responsible. It sounds selfish but it’s the truth. A girl has to stand on her own two feet. I work hard for the solitary peace of this bathtub. I look forward to it all day. Sometimes I lose focus, falling into daydreams, and when I look up, my boss is staring at me through his thick glasses, quietly slapping a ruler against his hand. “You’ve been dreaming again, haven’t ya? You got numbers to crunch,” he says, the steel heavy in his lined hand. Let me tell you, I’ve got to get out of accounting. I’m good with numbers, with their quiet symmetry and predictability, but I don’t like them. I’d flush them all down the drain if I could. Yes, sir, I would.

MOTHER: What are you mumbling about? Numbers?

GIRL: Go do something domestic, mother! Chop some carrots or water the plants. She’s head of a fortune 500 company but she can’t be bothered to chop up garlic for dinner. I adore her, I want to strangle her. It’s satisfying to experience that duality of emotion. Don’t you think?

MOTHER: Your grandmother is here! She would love to come in!

GRANDMOTHER: Darling, do let me in! I’ll rustle us up some martinis. I’ll braid your hair, sing you a song.

GIRL: No! I’m happy to be by myself. Why is that such a crime?

GRANDMOTHER: It’s not, sweets. I used to bathe with your mother, you know.

GIRL: Yes, I know, I know. That doesn’t make it right.

GRANDMOTHER: We’re family. Your dirt is my dirt and don’t ever forget it.

GIRL: My grandmother is a recovering alcoholic, does that give her credibility? She thinks so.

GRANDMOTHER: I WAS ONCE AN ALCOHOLIC! I’M FINE NOW BUT I UNDERSTAND YOUR DEEPEST SORROW, TRULY I DO! LET ME IN THERE, WE CAN TALK!

GIRL: I’m fine! I just want to read my tabloid. Brad and Angelina are going for baby number thirty-four.

GRANDMOTHER: Christ on a cracker! I need a stiff drink at the thought of it.

GIRL: It’s tough to be a girl, sometimes, but I don’t see another option. Do you?

Bonfire of Vanities

I'm heading to Michigan for blueberries, bonfires, and Fever Teeth set design (sunsetjunk here we come). I'm jazzed! I'll be back in a few days with pertinent insights and fotos.

Popsicle Sticks

I read this article in GQ and the journalist was so fucking great, snarky and poetic, and he mentioned driving a Swedish beater down his college row, awaiting a big mac as hot and rancid as Ice Cube's lyrics. I was in the bath tub, chuckling to myself. Said journalist was remarking upon something pedestrian. We've all been there: stuffed into a janky backseat, seatbelt tight across the chest, salty air whipping through the night, laughter sending the tiny car up and into the night before it races towards the inevitable hamburger at 3 am. It's naughty and it's fun. The glee is in the idiosyncratic detail that makes experience yours and I was happy to see a journalist that delighted in his own chaos and humdrum experience. I'm back in Chicago now, walking down the same pavements I've always walked, and I'm hungry for something spontaneous. But I'm missing it. Right now, as I sit here, kids are humping in the park, senior citizens are digging for gold, rabbits are running, the trees are rotting from inside out, the wind is blowing, the world is turning. I think the point is to see yourself imprinted by every experience, a house of paper/ your words all over me.

Summer Wind

Red lipstick, rotary phones, typewriters, martini glasses, turn tables, black and white photos of my grandfather with slicked hair and high cheekbones, pearls, orchestral melodies. My tastes are of another age. I'm nostalgic for days I never had--> clams casino in 1956, white russians in the boardroom. I'd like a little glamour, a little Frank-Sinatra dappery. Let's sigh our melodies underneath a blue umbrella sky.

Fever Dreams

Mr. J and I partook of a few Honeymoon beers and walked underneath trees that spilled over onto the greasy street below. We said goodnight and I brushed my teeth hastily before getting into bed. Perhaps I should have rinsed the Honeymoon out of my mouth more thoroughly because it seems that the sweet beer coated my teeth and sent my brain waves dancing. I had this incredibly vivid dream. I was imprisoned for a crime I didn't do and promptly assaulted a guard. I booked it out of the prison and I hailed a cab in my regulation garb. I took shelter from the rain in the backseat of an Indian cab. I scrutinized the cabbie, did he know me? The radio crackled and popped in his pleather dash and we sped through the night, only stopping at a convenient store. I went to the airport and got on a plane, headed for anywhere, hoping to escape for all time. I woke up, shivering, with aching arms, so relieved it was only a dream. I felt focused, happy about real life, and all I was accountable for. Perhaps I had this dream because J and I discussed the Himalayas and eating sweet Indian fruit or maybe the fever dream was incurred because I needed to appreciate my carefree days. Either way, you best believe I brushed my teeth thoroughly this morning and decided against stripes.

R+J

Where are you statuaries and exploding hearts and gun holsters and diamonds and beater cars and magic potions? golden crown and moonlit pool, crestfallen wings and helicopter to slice up the night? It's about to rain. Sleep, her body, says. Just sleep. Let the golden mouth come to you there, sleep, but she won't just yet. She isn't ready.

Mrs. Yogato

It's the summer of yes. I've decreed it. June is here and it's time to write and play and swim and read and mingle and email and create create create. In honor of the summer of yes, I played ice hockey with 40 year old men today. I hoisted on my sweaty pads, tied a knot in my bandana, and skidded out onto the ice for an hour of hypertension and hysteria. It was a blast. The summer of yes means yes to all things--> let's get bold. I'm going to finish casting my show, clean out my closet, and slide into downward dog. Call me Mrs. Yogato.

Infant Queen

On Saturday I did the unspeakable: I babysat. It's not that I dislike babies, on the contrary actually. They have great bed head and they sport eccentric rompers. I love babies but babysitting was not in my repetoire. Well, there I was Saturday afternoon with cut off jeans and a mental list of activities: cartoons, basketball, nap time, apples and juice. Oh, was I deceived. Alyssa, the 3 year old, had other plans for me. She is a blond curly haired babe with the will of a Roman emperor. I swear to you, when she was screaming and balling her firsts, resisting "night night" (nap time) I imagined her in a crimson cape and gladiator sandals, about to rule the masses. Who was I to put this little Monarch to bed? She was regal as she attempted to devour her plastic peas and doughnuts. After some cooing and a little "Goodnight Moon" I got her to drink her bottle, and as she sucked it down I couldn't help but smirk, thinking I had coaxed her into drinking the magic potion. I lay her down in her crib, covered her with her blanket, and shut the door, but not all the way. Oh me oh my was that a mistake. I crept down the stairs, hoping to tidy up the dolls Alyssa had terrorized. All of a sudden, I heard a stampede of baby footsteps. Suddenly, baby Alyssa sweetly yelled "hi!" No voice has ever put such fear down my spine. "You were supposed to go night night" I said. "Let's play!" she replied. I was toast. An hour later, she was tuckered out. I stood over the crib watching her; she resisted sleep even as it took over her eyes. I puttered downstairs like a nervous mother. I couldn't watch TV, couldn't eat. I flipped through Sports Illustrated like an imposter and checked on Alyssa's breathing every so often. Finally, the rest of the family returned, including big kids Zach and Olivia. The parents gave me a few tips, and headed out the door. I was relieved to have the older two with me, finally some compatriots! Zach and I played a little one-on-one; he had an excellent flick of the wrist and lay up. Olivia and I preferred to gossip. She sat on the bathroom floor and gave me the dirt on her friends and their love lives, and the nice boys who played "spy" with her during snack time. They helped me put Alyssa to bed; they took turns reading to her and as we left the room, Olivia pulled the door firmly shut. "She can get out of her crib, you know. You have to pull the door shut all the way." I feigned surprise. "Is that so?" and we walked downstairs for a little dessert.

Spines

I tiptoed down the steps and ran my fingers along the spines of books and books, breathing quietly and staring in wonder. I tilted my head and I leaned into the bookshelf, smiling as if embracing a long lost lover. The co-op bookstore will do this to you. It's a secret place, hidden underground at U of C, tucked under the roots of ancient trees. I used to go most every weekend with my parents and I would post up in a plastic chair with a stack of books to page through. I would choose a few and head home, losing myself in narrative for days. I thought I had lost my reading lust but staring at the assortment of titles, I was thirsty again. What's inside? i wondered, reaching for "Arctic Summer" by E.M. Forster. I wanted all of the stories for my own. I wanted to lose myself in the words, forget time, forget troubles, and just breathe in the crystal castles that words make in all of their invisible grace. I want to be invisible too, only regaining color when I've discovered something true.

stamp

Mexican men drinking cantaloupe juice and my cousin and i on the porch swing kicking our legs and wondering how we got this way and lonely summers and bath tubs and peeling skin and your face with eyes closed so sweetly and women in pencil skirts and will i ever look be like that and would i want to and always the dream of mountains and a place i couldn't imagine and the rain ceaseless and the promise of being better and ice cream and a trench coat and men on parole and tacos at 3 am and a secret garden a secret adventure and dirty water and your hands what do they look like and oh when will i know what it's like to really live maybe i do maybe i really do

Moves So Fast

We ran from the humidity, from the endless summer before us--> we ran right into the cold of Exit Thru the Gift Shop. The documentary was funny, excellent, and as we could have predicted, Banksy stole the show. Banksy is internationally revered for his clean graphics and mysterious dealings but I was drawn in by something else. Was it the quippy British remarks? The buttery voice? The casual lean back in the chair? I think I was crushing because I see Banksy as the embodiment of the true artist. He has an overwhelming compulsion to produce produce produce and he'll scale walls, unglue bricks, to satisfy the hunger. He's so hot (he was shrouded in black but intuition tells me) because he's working for his own satisfaction, for his own hunger. Call me naive, but I like to tell myself that pursuit of passion, following the flow if you will, leads to personal bliss and outward validation. Simply put: if you do what you want, and do it well, with some conviction, with a little sweat, you may just find yourself happy as a pig in shit. I'm counting on that but if I'm wrong, dear Banksy, if you want to pay me a visit, drop by with some stencils and snarky remarks, I'll put some coffee on and settle back in my chair.

Treasure Desk

You can discover all sorts of treasures in the forgotten drawers of your desk. A champagne flute, headphones, small Shakespeare volumes, a health club membership card, wires, a painting. My favorite finding was a stack of pictures. Pictures are quintessential, and they always will be, even when paper goes out the door. Nothing can replace that tiny relic of a past age, that snapshot, the particular birth and death of a moment you never could recognize. My pictures are particular, faded: Dad and my nannu, in crushed velvet suits and bowties, smiling on a lawn; a friend ecstatic on icelandic ice; remy and keegan sipping from glass bottles; a blue car; a stack of logs. Photographs are worlds within worlds, the more you scrutinize the less you know. And this is their secret beauty. I'd like to venture back to that lawn, and stand on the grass, awaiting the next lightbulb flash or summer breeze, but it won't happen. There's no return, there's only imagination. I come to that revelation most every day.

Swimming

I love swimming. It's the motion- moving softly through water, the bubbles breaking, a tranquil disruption of space. The semester is drawing to a close; it's time to pair up my socks and stow my dresses in a rotting suitcase. It's been a swimming spring; time has passed, splintering into pieces as it ricochets off of me. I'm sad to say goodbye to baltimore this year. Last night, after tacos and tie-dye, a certain roommate and i found ourselves scrubbing the kitchen floor. We were drunk, laughing at the blackened tile and own our vigorous exertion. I was swept up in the moment- the friends smoking in the living room, the comfort, the melancholy delight of the whole evening. I'll miss this swimming season. I learned something I couldn't put a name to.

Wild Thing

Have you seen "Where The Wild Things Are"? I recommend it. I didn't finish the film but I got a little taste of the Rumpus. I started thinking about my Wild Thing and what my own fierce wonderland would look like. Would it be filled with beasts and twigs and desert infinitudes? Max was perfect in that land, with his onezy and tin crown. I'd like to go with him there and stand underneath the looming trees, cozying up to Carol's furry paws. There's nothing better than a secret well kept, the idea of pure imagination and a land that only imagination can access. Cinema/ literature/ society tells us that children are the secret keepers. We believe that kids have clear eyes with which to see the hidden neon hieroglyphics of the world and that with age, the colors dim and dissolve into the smog. Let's refuse to let this happen. An intellect or capability for discerning magic doesn't need to stand in opposition to the "real world." After all, nothing's more magical than reality. I don't know what my Wild Thing looks like but I have a singing intuition that she wears tortoise shell glasses and smokes a pipe. There's only one way to find out.

Le Pain Maudit

A petit village called Pont-Saint-Espirit once suffered from psychedelic outbursts. Every so often, there would be an outbreak and the villagers would fall into delirium. Their blood was turning to roses! their heads heavy like lead! As it turns out, this was the CIA's trickery. They were lacing the village's bread with LSD. It was the Cold War so I guess this delicious deviousness was fair play? I was inspired and wrote a lil something. Here it is!

*New Season*

Monsieur Chocolat was never seen outdoors in the summer. He preferred his utensils—the mixing bowls and heaving whipping cream, the shapely eggs and large wooden spoon—to other company. And besides, he had villagers to poison.
While the villagers smacked their lips and stuffed their pipes, Monsieur Chocolat was busy in his kitchen, cultivating psychedelic mould for his scrumptious pastries. Was it sinful? Uncouth? Unsavory? he wondered as he switched on the heat lamps. Perhaps. “I’m not mad,” he said aloud, “I’m simply bored. And we’ve had such a drought of dreams. The fishermen don’t sing on the docks and the children won’t eat. I must do something!” He stooped down to inspect the mould. It was green and hardened, like hair clumped in the drain, so textured and foreboding. He pinched a sample and held it to the light. Yes, this would do nicely. He put on rubber gloves and gathered his ingredients: butter, eggs, flour, bittersweet chocolate, salt, and mould. He picked up the eggbeater and got to work. Two hours later, Monsieur Chocolat wiped the sweat from his forehead and took a look at his work. Sheets of perfectly glazed petit pain chocolat sat on the counter, lying in wait. He flipped his sign to OPEN.

***
Monsieur Chocolat strolled under the willow trees and smiled. Lovers rolled in the dirt, leaves tangling in their hair. “Mercy” They called. “Roses are blooming from the nutrients in my blood!” He passed by the docks. The fishermen were dancing, casting their lines about each other. “My bounty is deeper than the sea,” a man yelped before diving into the ocean. And when Monsieur Chocolat passed by the perfumerie, a woman with black eyes spritzed the air, clapped twice, and passed out. Monsieur Chocolat put a hand to his stomach. My, my, he did feel dizzy. He fell to the ground, plump belly barely cushioning the fall.

***
What Monsieur Chocolat didn’t know was this: the mould willed itself into creation. The dreamers yearned for it in the tired hours of the night; they were starved for that swirling olive tone in the background of their delirium. Monsieur Chocolat was the perfect conduit as he was foolish enough to believe he controlled the fever. And so as the mould procreated in the kitchen and made its own bread, it laughed, and savored the sweetness of its new home in that doughy flesh.

Easy-Bake-Oven

"You're a weirdo. You don't watch TV and you don't know how to use a microwave." True claims. I'm about sixty years behind the wave. Having said that, I recently heated up some puttanesca [see microwave] and then watched Desperate Housewives [see hulu]. I thought DH was going to be repulsive [see awful acting and hot moms] but I thoroughly enjoyed it. I jumped into the sixth season, in which the neighborhood boy morphed into a psychokiller. I'm talking cake in the kitchen and then strangling on the street. Bizarro. I've never kept up with TV but I think there's something to it. It's a playground, a dreaming medium for all sorts of dark fantasies and comedic routines. I may buy a box of pop tarts and hold all my calls. What's a toaster again?

Olive Branch

I was once a delinquent Jewish scholar. Let me explain. I received a letter in the mail from my mom today (bless you, Wendy Sue), and enclosed was a b&w photo from my bat mitzvah. In the image, I'm inches from crying, sitting next to my Hebrew tutor. We'll call him EB. EB was a serious man, with graying hair and a parrot named Chick. In the evenings during our studies, Chick would mosey down the table, sometimes walking near my tea, sometimes sitting on my papers, careless. In his thick accent, EB would call to her and extend a finger, and she would alight onto his hand. Those vesper sessions frightened me: would the bird peck me? would i ever sing the prayers in correct intonation? I made so many mistakes in those days: showing up to temple in sandals on the sabbath, procrastinating on anything and everything religious. I was a hot mess. Even now, thinking of EB's clean square nails and deep gaze gives me a little shiver. I think I'll write EB a note, check in on the bird. Maybe she's flown the coop, or maybe she's waiting for me to extend the olive branch. As of now I'm a bagels- and-lox Jew but it might be nice to dig a bit deeper, see how things have changed.

A Walk in the Garden of Delights

If last weekend was a succulent piece of fruit, let's say a Florida orange, then this is my attempt to squeeze it dry of all its nectar. I should have written everything down in my little notebook, recording it for posterity and my future children, but I was too busy adventuring to stop and open my backpack. It was my third Spring Fair (an annual tradition at Johnny Hop) and my most epic yet. Thursday night was the kick off, and lemme tell you, nothing says fun like weird girls from chemistry lab riding a mechanical bull set up in a public quad. Onto Friday. The day was beautiful, warm and golden, and the opening of the infamous Beer Garden. The President's Garden, buttoned up as it usually is with coy pond and blooming trees, is momentarily transformed into a den of sin, complete with kegs, booths, inflatable cacti, drunken students, and Baltimore hangers on. It's glorious. I had never been before and walked in eagerly with bracelet and tickets, ready to booze. There we sat, drinking Twisted Tea and Coors Light for hours and hours, basking in the grass and gossiping about every meathead who walked by. The drinking was punctuated by trips to the freshmen quad for turkey legs, deep fried oreos (you can deep fry anything apparently), pad thai, or indian sample platters. Yum yum yum. Saturday passed in much the same way, with lots of drunken hugs and dancing in the grass. That evening was the first ever "Underground Dance Party." The Spring Fair committee orchestrated a rave in a campus garage, complete with glow sticks, police force, and DJ Scotty B. It was kind of amazing: droves of students showed up with hazy eyes and a fierce need to PARTY. I got in, bopped to the speakers, and promptly heard "Yo, the Baltimore police want to shut this bitch down!" We left and headed above ground. Sunday morning, us eco friendly kids boarded a bus outside Mason Hall headed for the DC Climate Change Rally. The event was on the National Mall and featured Passion Pit, The Roots, Booker T, Bob Weir, Joss Stone, James Cameron, Bill Clinton (on skype!), Margaret Atwood, etc etc. Thousands of people showed up with water bottles and linen bags, eager for music and believing, if just for a moment, in their own capacity for change. We stood for hours in the blistering sun, waiting for Passion Pit, wiping the sweat off, and joking about the Vegans encroaching closer. My boy Yip threatened to put on bacon deodarant just to stave them off. Vegans aside, the rally was an iconic moment for me. DC is a gorgeous city and I enjoyed the eclectic mix of students and bohemians, conservationists and kids. Mr. Nate Byer got his sister and I back stage passes (you rule, Nate!) and so we sat with legs dangling over the scaffolding's edge, watching Sting and Trudie, Questlove and John Legend. I was elated, I won't lie, to see celebrities up so close. I even ran over to a guy in a bowtie and took a picture with him, having no idea he was Dhani Jones, Mr. Football Extraordinaire. Sorry, Dhani, I totally love your muscles. Post rally, Alex and I went for Ethipoian food (conclusion: delicious honey beer, terrifying spongey bread) and explored the city, dancing with politicians and gay boys in cardigans. We finally crashed late, the cat Babs at our feet. And then it was Monday. Today. We roused ourselves, ate some omelets, and took the MARC back, bright and early. The train ride back was the perfect cap to a perfect weekend. I lay with head against the glass, ready for the eventual nap/recharge/adventure ahead. I'm a sleepyhead but it was an excellent weekend, a walk in the garden of delights.

A presto, blogosphere.

Wouldn't It Be Nice

Breakfast at Tiffany's- a tale of American reinvention and style. I read Mr. Capote's story recently and I'm presently inspired by Miss Holly Golightly's tawny hair and spontaneous beauty. I was recently described as a 'chic tomboy' which made me question my pension for jeans and tee-shirts. I'd like to be the type of girl who uncovers her cocktail dress under the bed and spritzes herself with perfume, one foot out the door. In honor of Miss Golightly's soap and lemon joie-de-vivre:

"I went out into the hall and leaned over the banister, just enough to be see without being seen. She was still on the stairs, now she reached the landing, and the ragbag color of her boy's hair, tawny streaks, strands of albino blond and yellow, caught the hall light. It was a warm evening, nearly summer, and she wore a slim cool black dress, black sandals, and a pearl choker. For all her chic thinness, she had an almost breakfast-cereal air of health, a soap and lemon cleanness, a rough pink darkening in the cheeks. Her mouth was large, her nose upturned. A pair of dark glasses blotted out her eyes. It was a face beyond childhood, yet this side of belonging to a woman."

Let's get glamorous, y'all!

Leaping

Down/ down/ down the bed sank, crashing through the wooden floor. There she lay, naked in chalked grass. A tractor appeared from the trees, rolling over the field to meet her. Cowboy drove. They took a tour of the place: the gas station, the ice cream parlor, the insurance corp. He spoke Chinese and she didn’t understand but he smelled nice, like ripe oranges. They stopped in front of a church. It was gray and crumbling and offered SPAGHETTI SOCIALS on Tuesday nights. They alighted to the ground just as the neon sign switched on: REVELATION IS HERE.

Ye Old Corn

The contents of my fridge are disgraceful: old corn, eggs (Molly's), stick-o-butter, and wheat bread. It's the age of the re-re-re-mix so I'll look up some recipes with the epicuriousapp and throw some veggies in a pan. It's all very bohemian anyway, right? Luxury gadget speaking to molding cheese? A no-waist line and a timeless dress.

The Smoking Nun

The Smoking Nun inhales, cigarette dangling from religious lips. Is she smirking cause she knows something Divine? Did she skim the sublime with those ashen fingertips? What's she thinking? If I lit a cigarette and covered my hair, would I plug into the Cosmic Computer, the one filled with microchips and coded beauty and equations for grace? I'll hire a sherpa and climb on his back, traveling to the mountaintop with a woven backpack and a Menthol burning to the quick, lighting the dry air, illuminating the toxic, the golden dust. I want a truth to hold close. I want to run across Fellini's black and white beach and drag in the unblinking sea urchin, the one held fast in netting, but emancipated by the ocean's truth.

Please Don't Stop The Rain

Geez,I haven't written in ages. I apologize, loyal readers. I've been lacking in inspiration. I could talk to you about Dogwood trees, days of rain, the babies BBQ-ing, the emails overseas, the vegetables growing, the dead decomposing, the clothes in my closet, the semester that's ending so quickly, the life that's about to be lived. It seems that as I glide into the future, I'm arrested in the past. Rome Rome Rome. I miss Via Annia and our tiny balcony and the Signora screaming at her dog and the wandering wandering wandering and the feeling of endless bliss overtaking me. I was swinging free, we, me, a little eternitee. I'm fiending for the past, for marble steps leading to anywhere.

Tap Dance

I'm breaking pieces from a chocolate easter egg and listening to Frank Sinatra. The joints in my hands hurt. I should go to sleep, let the cells regenerate and all that. I had a dream the other night that I was in the backseat of a Buick, lying across the lap of a man named Anxious. As a car backed up, he said "wait up, Divine." You never know what's waiting for you in sleep. A tap dance with Fred Astaire?

Boy #2

[Lights up on Boy. His hair is parted on the side and he wears a silk bow tie. He takes a scroll from his pocket, uncurls it, clears his throat, and ROARS]

IF MODERN LIFE OFFERED THE POSSIBILITY OF SURPRISE, YOU WOULD HAVE UNCOVERED THIS SCROLL IN THE BOWELS OF THE UNIVERSE, UNDERNEATH A SNICKERS BAR AND PAIR OF OLD TENNIS SHOES. YOU WOULD HAVE FOUND THIS LIKE JOSEPH MORMON DID THE GOLDEN PLATES. INSTEAD, I’LL TELL YOU ABOUT LEONA BELL. THESE ARE PIECES OF A SPLINTERED EXISTENCE.

[He continues in softer tones]

Birth or April 8, 1972:
Leona is born to Samuel and Beatrice Bell. She emerges from the womb without a heartbeat. The doctor takes a coffee break, and then runs a blood test. As it turns out, Leona suffers from a heart disease called Amoraphobia. She will be incapable of love. She will fear it. Beatrice holds her diseased child and cries. Samuel curses himself for impregnating his wife.

Age 4:
Leona cries when receiving a hug from her preschool teacher, Mrs. Dapley.

7th Grade:
Leona builds a rocket and decides to take off for Mars. She is holding a blow- torch to the bottom of the rocket in an attempt at take-off when Samuel rushes into the backyard and swears at her. She pouts and runs into the bathroom only to discover that the cramps in her uterus are not caused by fear of black matter but a new menstruation. She will forever link the mystery of outer space with her own womanhood.

11th grade:
At a party, Vincent Smith offers Leona a hit near the pool table. He passes the joint to her and their fingers touch. Leona takes a puff and exhales; the smoke turns an electric green as it shoots from her lips. She tastes like gasoline.

22:
Leona works for a travel agency. She books trips to Oslo and Cancun, Maui and Vancouver. When no one is looking, she runs her fingers over the Andes and thinks of people she would throw off the mountaintop.

31:
Vincent calls the agency and is thrilled to discover Leona’s husky voice on the other end. She meets him at the local Hilton for a drink and some cocktail peanuts. Afterwards, they make love in Room 412 under fluorescent lighting. Vincent fizzes with happiness.

35:
Leona pins her hair up and steps into her wedding dress.

36:
Leona’s period goes missing during a lunar eclipse. She gives birth to a baby boy.

70:
Leona is hailed as an engineering wonder. She is the oldest living survivor of Amoraphobia and makes it into three medical journals. Her husband likes to carry the clippings around in his wallet.

72:
Leona loses her will to live. While her husband and son are out at the baseball game, she digs a grave in the backyard and jumps into in. A willing neighbor covers her in dirt. When Vincent and Jacob return, they hear Leona breathing underground and dig her up. Leona stays in the earth, without moving, for another 20 years.

[Boy looks around the room].

My mother doesn’t need you or me or anybody. She’s flutist and cellist and pianist and conductor. She’s everything and then some. My mother is contained and tidy and lying in the dirt. My mother is a symphony.

Swing Tree

"One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.." says Mr. Robert Frost. Of late, there has been so little birch swinging. Where is the debauchery? The magic? I've been reading lots of literature and the words on the page are teasing me. Go out and play! they taunt. Do something worth writing about. Instead, there are violet circles under my eyes and clean sheets on my bed. Paperwork is due and the seasons are static, winter never blooming into spring. I was cleaning up the school theatre with my friend Isaac, stacking chairs and talking psychedelic drugs. We were discussing the possibilities of that minute splice of reality [the one we perceive regularly] becoming thicker and more brilliant when the doors of perception opened. Would drugs allow that to happen? Or would those drug-induced revelations be phony? Would it matter if we felt excited? We're thirsty for revolution, revelation, something please something. If life doesn't begin, I'm going to hide, just wrap myself in some blankets and emerge in a month, with glittering wings and a bad case of bedhead. I have to find some birches of my own and swing for a little while. This monotony of dirty clothes and spin cycle and bureaucracy is absolutely no Fun. Youth is for Fun! Capital F. I might be playing into a gross misreading. Maybe I should be spinning on a stationary bike for hours at a time, and reading up on buddhist practice, sitting on a rooftop with bottled water and a lotus blossom in my hair. But we're composed of opposites and piety has to be pitted up against something darker, more electric, more soulful. 21 has to be great.

ZETA

Buffalo Zeta. Isn't that the best name you've ever heard? He's the sexist, sexy, no Spanish speaking protagonist of Revolt of The Cockroach People (just read it). I was thinking about ole Buffalo and fiending to do something, to transpose some of him onto me. I wanted to sharpie a tee-shirt with his name, put his genius onto my skin. He's no hero, don't get me wrong. He is political, apolitical, frustrated, derogatory, slandering, womanizing, and generally low. But the thing about Zeta is that he throws himself into every situation with vague optimistic intention. For Zeta, every day is another mountain to climb. I sound like I'm writing an english essay and that isn't the point. The point is that Zeta has this brash, illiterate desire to carve a place for himself in the world. He wants to do something and he doesn't know what it is but he burns through the days in the hopes of doing Something. He's fine as long as he's moving (think LCD Soundsystem, Tribulations [it's alright/as long as something's happening]). I sympathize with that nameless need to do something, to say something, to the world. My professor, brilliant man that he is, was talking about Zeta's resistance to the Grand Narrative. What? It means that if the Universe is blueprinted by a text or narrative (be it the Bible or Huckleberry Finn), than Zeta refuses to buy into those notions. It's frustrating because at this point in history, most everything has been resisted right? I mean throwing off popular societal notions is old hat, a cliche of its own. Whatever. Zeta doesn't give a fuck and neither do I. He drinks his tequila and generally moves like a buffalo- immortal and impenetrable. His eyes were never described but I imagine black ones, endless and unblinking.

Backstage

I'm writing under a tiny pool of light, from the bowels of Arellano theatre. The thespians are huddled, eating their sushi, discreetly facebook chatting, maybe someone is highlighting backstage, twirling a fake mustache and turning their crumbling page. It's tech week and we're a little loopy. We're over ambitious, under rehearsed, and generally ready to pass out. The previous Snowpocalypse threw the semester into chaos and our professors are playing catch up. We have violet circles under our eyes but we're missing the twilight outside, locked in the theatre with computer chargers and tired fingers. Having said that, it's a good time. Nothing inspires illicit lust or imagination like confined quarters. As of Friday, I'm a free woman and believe me, I will be popping some bottles and sleeping till three. But. We're young and restless and we'll traipse around backstage, knocking into cheap set pieces, and cutting our elbows on sharp edges. And later, when we're enjoying the twilight, we'll laugh about all the times we never saw the sun.

Blush

I just took a garbage bag to Salvation Army. I threw some old clothes in, zipped in the car, and poof, washed my hands of another bagful of stuff. Spring is uncurling and it's time to begin anew. I've always loved the idea of purification: sloughing off dead skin, exfoliating pores, dusting, grooming, shedding the old for the promise of the new. It might be the Virgo in me but I like taking stock, seeing where I'm at, and starting fresh. Spring Break has been complicated with auditions and socializing and trying to get that "down time" in. Somewhere in the last few months, my inner workaholic came alive and ever since, I've been exhausted. Even when I dream, I'm thinking of resting and I wake up with agitated bones and a fat to-do list. It's time to stop, get a little sun, and enjoy my self. And that goes for you too. It's March. Time to put on that seersucker, make a drink, and enjoy the blushing of the trees. You dig?

Disappear

I fell down the rabbit hole tonight. We3 ventured into the world of 3D, glasses tinted and popcorn buttered. Alice In Wonderland was just as gaudy and delightful as I had hoped. Maybe it was the funky shades or maybe it was the sensation of free fall, of letting yourself be swept up in the sublime. (Although let's get real, I'm always ready for that). The movie was over the top amazing: tulle dresses and victorian shoes, white powder and glowing mists, the cheshire cat and the broken tea pots, Johnny Depp's heartbreaking lisp and the feeling of soaring through the air. It was magic. The Queen of Hearts has a special place in my heart. When I was 7 or 8, I was fiending to be Belle for halloween. I wanted her satin ball gown, the one with the scalloped bottom that went down in waves. Anyway, mom and I waited until the last second and the store was sucked dry. The only costume left? The Queen of Hearts. So there I was, with hearts drawn on my cheeks, bad hair, and a fat lil body packed into the card suit. I resented the costume. I wanted to be feminine, hot, debonaire in my ball gown. Instead, I was the cream filling. Having said that, it makes for a telling tale and it marks the beginning of my love for the scorned. The Queen of Hearts is bad. Her heart is undoubtedly shrunken and putrid, like rotten fruit. But. She has a charisma that comes from sticking to her guns and hey, it's admirable. My adventure into 3D was totally satisfying and the drive home with Pete and Mare and Justin Bieber capped it off. I'm waiting for my rabbit hole or maybe I'm falling down it all the time. Reality is crazy, baby, oh oh ohh.

Like It's Your Birthday

Last night I was reunited with some of the people I love best. It was Redmoon's "Lunatique," their 20th birthday celebration. It was the expected madness: an orchestra in rabbit masks, tuba players in skeleton suits, an astronaut shot into space, bumping and grinding in the warehouse, pink martinis, the Redmoon bombastic lifestyle. I was all adrenaline, so psyched to see the people who made last summer the spectacular it was. There are always those faces, those people, the ones who perfectly encapsulate a time in your life and when you see them, it's like a benchmark. They pinpoint your progress. Now, auditions for my own show are approaching- the Redmoon crew were all present when my grant project was just a hazy dream. And so we all traded news (Redmoon performed at the White House for halloween!). I was proud to be like yo, here is my independence, and I can't wait for you to see the fruits of my labor come August. This morning there was another birthday celebration, a brunch for one of my mom's oldest friends, Norine. Norine is amazing: slim as a whip and just as shocking. She has this spirit to her, like she's known from day one what she's about, and she inspires you to pull yourself up. She was so surprised to see me, and pulled me in to sip champagne (oh gawd why) and talk about my life. With Norine, it's genuine. She skips the bullshit and pursues the Real Facts. Benchmarks. Chicago has always felt like my lifeblood. Yes, I've spent my entire life in this city but it's more than that. There's a fluidity to my life here, the people, the friends, the sidewalks. It's in me like no other architecture. I love it more than I can say and I'm always happy to be reminded of who I am, and the people who are constantly pushing me forward. I have things to do and they won't let me forget it. Time to blow out the candles and get rolling, Hip hip hooray.

Music Be

On Sunday, my ipod died. It just threw its little digital hands up and said 'no more! Let me sleep!' So I sighed and went to youtube. Music is present in most every part of my day: showering, cooking, sleeping, studying, walking. And why not? Music be the food of life. Unheard music might be sweet but I'm a junky so please don't deny me. Alex, lovely girl that she is, told me about a website called stereomood.com. The gimmick is that the site has tags and if you click one, a playlist appears. Geniusssss. With one click, thousands of new songs for that lonely afternoon, the cruise down the endless highway, the stolen cocktail. I'll be listening all afternoon as I squeeze some last intellectualism out. Sometimes you need a little help.

Sweat

Writing writing editing editing no sleeping sleeping. As a pleasure beast, this disappoints. I'm hungry and full, mostly exhausted. It's a pet peeve, people who complain of exhaust, but whatever. I'm really tired. The road ahead is filled with to-do lists and coffee cups. Alas. I have to believe that my pleasure principle will shift, that I will awake, soaking in gold, and sweating brilliance. There's no alternative. I'm off to outline a paper. I better end up in lights.

Jeep Cherokee

The sun is blazing and another day of writing begins. I was cooking black beans and rice last night, cradling the phone to my ear, talking to Dookie about my play (summer 2010! August 13-15th!) I was saying that in The Writing Seminars (official title and less official debauch), there's so much competition that I'd be nervous to have students/friends/writers in the audience. "Oh fuck that," she said. "It doesn't matter." Too true, Dookie. I've been a busy bee, writing writing, and I can't wait for this summer. I'll be CEO of my own life with ample budget and bow tie to match. (It should always be that way, right?) I'll be directing, rehearsing, organizing, creating, living my own thoughts and desires. I see a wood-paneled Jeep Cherokee, a cast of scruffy and amazingly brilliant actors, some sandwiches, and hours of brilliance. Wouldn't that be ideal? Well guess what y'all, that's what it shall be. CAN'T WAIT.

Words and Coins

My smart phone thinks it's smarter than I am. When I try to text, it auto-corrects me, as if to say "darling dear, didn't you mean that other adjectivenounverbconjugation?" I'm frustrated by words. Between facebook, texting, and tweeting, everyone is eager to spew themselves every which way. I'm all for expression of self and thought and for outpouring of creative and intelligent language but all this "##^^^$$^^^&$R HECKABABY dFLDLFORERERE LOOK AT ME TWEETING" is like fast-food: easily produced and eventually clogging the heart. Who am I to judge though right? Here I am, blogging to the nameless/shameless interweb in the hopes of pinpointing some eventual truth. I won't deny it. And yes, I have been told that I speak slowly and in a strange cadence, like someone who is constantly stoned or waiting for their next moment of revelation, so I'm not the demographic. But isn't there something to be said for economy and minimalism? Why do we need so much frenetic babble? Words are like currency. If we use them too often, they inflate and lose their grace. I need to be reminded of all that's good and pure. I think I'll go finish Mao II.

Natural Appetites

Lately, I've been ravenous. I've been hungry for everything: sleep and nutrition and reality and a good book and the future. I went to the grocery store and there I stood, mesmerized by the beans and rice in aisle two, until a clerk looked at me with concern. Was I alright? Oh, fine, just fine. I took my apples and cheddar home and fell upon the groceries, delighted. Why the appetite? Hunger is like this: consuming and inconvenient. As we get older, sometimes we fear our appetites will diminish. After all, who can thirst when there is work to be done and paper to be shuffled. When I was in Rome, my hunger diminished. In the land of food, I didn't want food. I was over stimulated and energized but I felt myself full after a bite of pasta or a glass of wine. Now, I'm lusting. I've had fever dreams, jumping out of bed, anxious for water and life to begin. It's irritating but comforting. It's a reminder of my own humanity, of the needs that make me whole. Tonight, the roommates and I baked some chocolate chip cookies and as the wind blew forth, we sat licking the bowl, and talking about the past. The summer is looming, and graduation is lurking, and the apple about to be plucked, and we're stressed. It's a feverish time and we're unprepared but we're hungry. How we feed ourselves is the crucial distinction.

When It Hits

It's late and I should be sleeping but I was listening to music and had this vivid memory. When I was in fifth grade or so, my dad and I went to see U2 at the United Center. It was the Elevation Tour, a spectacle of lights and danger, and we were in the nosebleed section, high above the squalor. The music swelled and I was sort of terrified, afraid of the height and sound. But I was also electrified. I was a young thing but I remember being like holy fuck, I'm alive, and this is nice. I felt like all that interior madness was matched by the fire outside of me, like Bono was singing just for moi, belting out the lyrics with everything he had in his majestic four foot bod. Even now, as I sit here in the dark, I'm filled with some hazy excitement. I have this impulse for new glasses. I'm thinking square, chic, something to make feel all hot and astute. But it's a larger impulse: to see. I want some frames that will focus the night. I'm going to be somewhere, front and center, with nice clean glasses and blazing heart.

Discovery

"Oh baby baby please, I think about you nightly." Wouldn't you love to know who that desperate electronic voice sings of? and who your stranger is? It's a mystery.

The Flossy Flossy

My mom loves magazines. She always has a stack of them piled about, in the kitchen, in the bathroom, in her study. Like so many things, I've picked this habit up and adopted it for my own purposes. I was sipping coffee, leafing through W tonight, when I came across this unbelievable spread on China Machado. Unbeknownst to me, China was the first non-caucasian model to make it onto a major magazine's cover. The woman rules. She's the daughter of Peruvian and Chinese parents and she has eyes, nose, lips, legs, for days. She ran away with a bull fighter when she was 19, swept off her feet after he bumped into a tree and introduced himself. It took all of three days for their exotic romance to blossom and bloom. China is an idol for me, her life is the stuff of Garcia Marquez's pregnant magical realism, all glowing trees and gorgeous babies and silks and romance and haughty idolatry. Magazines often offer this type of escape: pages of architecture and general splendor. In our current Americana, land of dutiful minimalism and tailored pants, I think there's something to be said for juicy imagery and family scandal. As my great aunt Marilyn says, "just throw on some Chanel."

Turns Me To Gold

I'd like to splice open the world with a thin blade and stick my hands inside it and feel the muscle pulsating there at my fingertips. I would like to watch a child being birthed and not turn my head at the sight of something so raw and animal. I've never been able to stand the sight of blood. There are certain thoughts that we suppress, for whatever reason. Something is too instinctively disturbing, too brutal, too sad, and we turn our faces. I want to put on a spacesuit, an enormous plastic helmet, and just fucking face it all. Today, I learned of Guy Debord, a leading member of the Situationalist Movement. As it was explained to me, he saw life as too beautifully synthetic. In all of its tidiness, we became slaves to it, unable to penetrate into the bleeding heart that makes for true experience. My writing tends to stay on the glass coating above the muddy ground. I don't often let my mind go into the deep deep underbelly but history is intrinsically inside. My grandparents once stood on the cliffs of Calabria, milking cows, or peeling oranges, or just generally waiting for life to begin. They came to America and what faced them was a bloody heart, pulsing and waiting to be listened to. I was born wearing rubber gloves. I just read this cyberpunk fantastical beast of a book called "Neuromancer," a text that created the idea of internet and cyberspace. It led to discussions of productivity, being a best self, the seamless universe of self, the possibility that progress isn't possible. It led to the idea of future and retrograde happening simultaneously. And this is crucial for me now. I want to move forward, propelled in a spaceship, through endless seasons and stars, into a place where The Golden Age awaits, filled as it will be with creative bliss and winds of change. But I'm only willing to move forward if I can carry the past, the weight of those past failures which inevitably brought the Italians to America, and Remy to this point. Nannu, my grandfather, is undoubtedly scratching his curling chest hair and wondering how his granddaughter became such a strange beast. That's okay. That's the point. I want to go harder, be stronger, be stranger. I have to look at that connection of veins and ventricles and stick my hands right into the mess of it. Otherwise, I'm just a synthetic thing.

Let Them Eat Cake

"Les Liaisons Dangereuses" is pretty delicious. Marie Antoinette loved the play, and it's no surprise. I can see her in a castle window, silk slippers tangled in blankets, the script precarious on a tray of cakes. We discussed the script in a basement classroom, the white walls all too familiar from thriller movies in which the guilty correspondent knows they're fucked, captured, the interrogation long and perverse. The diligent kids were focusing on the page, unwrapping candy bars and trying to ascertain who the Bad Guys were. I was flipping through, highlighting the lines I liked best. You have to hand it to Mr. Christopher Hampton: the man does sinister sex well. Listen to this: "You see, I have no intention of breaking down her prejudices. I want her to believe in God and virtue and the sanctity of marriage, and still not be able to stop herself. I want passion, in other words. Not the kind we're used to, which is as cold as it's superficial, I don't get much pleasure out of that any more. No. I want the excitement of watching her betray everything that's most important to her. Surely you understand that. I thought betrayal was your favourite word." That is cold cold cold and so good good good. Call me evil, but sinister love games amuse. I don't envy Cecile, the innocent who promises languor and sex, awaiting her education. I'm not advocating real-life heartaches and heartbreaks but there's something to be said for the polished cynicism of the piece. Love ain't no chess game but strategy never hurt.

The Spill

"If you believe in pain as a construct, you should believe in happiness too," Emma said, as I gasped with laughter. She was referring to our dear Professor, a guy who likes explicit detail and tales of tequila sunrises. Professor enjoys the Epic Pain of the Writer: the all consuming fire that separates the artist from the masses. He doesn't believe in Happiness, no no, it's for the faint. He's a great guy, our Professor, but he has a penchant for telling us about Writers. "Here's what Writers do" he will say, looking into our eyes as if to impart some grandiose truth of the universe. Well, the thing is, we're all Writers, dude. Yes, there is the stereotype and maybe we don't fit the bill. How could I. I don't carry a noose in my pocket and I don't smoke cigarettes. But, we know a thing or two. Heels on mahogany table, let me tell you what Writers do. Monday night. I show up at my friend Rose's apartment with a bottle of red wine and some sugar babies. She is on antibiotics, and will be drinking tea, but she is gracious enough to help me uncork. She is pulling the cork up with a corkscrew when the device gets stuck. Rose, being an independent woman, retrieves a tool kit, and this both mystifies and delights me. Using a monkey wrench, she begins pulling the cork up. This is exhausting for my fever laden friend. I sit on the ground, pulling the bottle down, as she uses some other newfangled tool to pull up. I am dragged across the floor from the force of her and then finally, by the grace of God, the cork flies up and red wine spills all over my jeans and onto her floor in an alcoholic imitation of childbirth. This is what Writers do. We sweat and we bathe in wine on and we generally feel inferior to our productive counter parts who will imbue the planet with new design. We just try to get through it.

An Education

Movement. A graceful stride forwards, a look back, a slippery slope. Movement is everywhere, when life is good. Hunger and thirst, movement, it's what we need. I've realized that fluidity in all things is what I want. Pandora, wikipedia, facebook: it's songs spilling into songs, and pictures into pictures. Last weekend I found myself in a basement, bopping around with the Science Po kids (the frenchie babies who study at Hopkins for a brief bit) to some hot beat. I knew a few people but really I was just spilling my beer and swishing my hair about, enjoying the dirty air. There's education in the classroom and this is essential, of course. Shakespeare and science manuals. And then there is the education you set yourself up for: meeting people and exploring and bumping your head on an exposed pipe at a house party. I'm trying to educate myself at all moments. Our shower curtain is a map of the world and I've started analyzing it. Did you know that Mauritius is tiny? There are blogs and articles on cyborgs and spreads of men in mickey mouse costumes and maybe it's all bullshit or maybe it's all for your benefit. We are more than an accumulation of facts and formulas and ultimately, I don't know my calculus. But I'm open to ideas. I'd like to build a pick-up truck and gather some friends and see some things. I'd like an endless education that I could be proud of. The other day, a professor of mine said 'she wants to be a tight rope walker, and to fly planes, and to be a jockey, but doesn't she really just want a story?' I can't speak for the heroine but I know I do.

Ivory

I'm a sucker for myths. Let me throw that out there. The myth of Pygmalion is one I particularly like. The story: Pygmalion was a sculptor and carved a woman out of ivory. His sculpture was so beautiful that he found himself disinterested in all things human. He lost interest in prostitutes (artists and hookers, it's like peanut butter and jelly) and prayed to Aphrodite that his love might come to life. The goddess took pity on Pygmalion and brought the ivory to life. They had a son together, named Paphos. I'm writing a play and I think I'm in love with half of my characters. Am I in love because its something higher than flesh and blood? Because I can control what is being said and thought? Or because anything created in art functions as a labor of love? I can't be sure. Pygmalion sculpted his lady love and was ruined for real women. Lars had his blow up doll and denounced the pouty-lipped secretary dying for his attention. It doesn't make any sense, it makes complete sense. In the absence of a perfect real-life object, one has to look to something higher. There has to be a focal point in the sky. True, Pygmalion had a goddess watching over him, ready to grant his burning wish. I'm probably not as lucky. But hey. You never know.

Oh, No

Here's what you don't want:

You wake up at 9, 9:25, 10:13, 10:36. You shower, inspect your pores, fumble for your glasses. You walk into the living room and discover someone else's chinese food, empty bottles, red wine spilled on the futon, detritus. You pick up some trash, dispose of it into an overflowing bin, make yourself some eggs. You gather the camera/backpack/sweater left in your living room and walk sluggishly to auditions, where you are expected to evaluate a slew of college actors. The audition space is a small room, and surprise surprise, the only person when you arrive is a hyperactive boy who wants to shout in your ear as you sadly sip your coffee. It's burnt. The other directors walk in, throw thsemlves down, roll some cigarettes, open some books, discuss vegetarian cuisine, peking duck. The actors roll in, some accurate, some overdramatic. You pass notes with your friend and try some cost benefit analysis. You come home, into a dark room, remove nail polish, lie down, feel your head spinning, your fingers down to the quick. You put on some music.

That's what you don't want. But it happens anyway. Time to recuperate for another go around.

Sodality Society

I've been walking around campus lately, eager to chat. HEY! I say, waving to a friend from months past. Too often, the person on the receiving end of this is disinterested in my enthusiasm. I wonder, is there something on my face? Does my outfit embarrass? I rush to give a hug, or remember a small detail from said person's life. I guess that's strange? I've rediscovered some people who have the same flame, a similar urge to engage, without restraint. I was doodling in class, jotting down ideas, when a professor mentioned 'sodality.' Sodality references otherness. It's a word that can mean brotherhood or unity amongst 'others.' Well, hello. I'm going to start a Sodality Society. It won't be anything major (though a club crest might be in order) but it will be fun. Why should we [youngins] with delight and imagination, feel subjected to an apparent lack of liveliness? It won't do. I could censor myself, put down the red wine, and zip the lips. I could pick up the newspaper and highlight pertinent topics, make myself notecards referring to current events, in the hopes of providing intellectual insight. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I'm just not that type of girl. I'd rather kick up my heels and see where the night goes. I'll read the news but really, I want my own story. If that's too pedestrian or uncultured, I sorely apologize. I just can't park it on B level, head in text book, unflinching, unknowing, uncaring of the people at the next table.

Snap Crackle Pop

Blergh, I can't put thoughts into words right now. I've started about ten posts on assorted topics: hair, missing Rome, Grey's Anatomy as a parody of itself, life cereal, lack of inspiration, Justin Bieber and his prepubescent charm. I can't get a flow going. I walked to rehearsal earlier, listening to music, tripping on ice, inappropriate in a blazer, the cold washing over me. I couldn't help but think of Ro Ma Ro Ma Ma and all of its infinite glory. Each day had its own life, tidy, exciting and contained. I knew how amazing it was, always inwardly repeating 'Remy, savor this this this.' When I was diving into the sea, mountains at my back, or opening a bottle of the cheapest wine, I knew how content I was. But I had the luxury of the moment, there was only that, nothing forward, nothing past. Now, I'm back in Baltimore. And yes, it has its particular charms, but I miss the grandeur of being anonymous, of walking outside in a blazer, and only half understanding the action around me. It's up to me now. I need to put myself into contexts that aren't immediate, to grow by virtue of my own initiative and not because the language/ the people/ the ancient arches/ the golden churches are beckoning me to. It's the constant struggle, to pop a little hole in the atmosphere and stretch it till a mysterious something/other appears. If you want in, let me know.

Breathing

As the snow came down in a mist, we talked about Henry James and his Olympian ways. Professor mentioned that James had a certain fetish for sitting atop a throne, and watching the characters he created mash each other up, sweetly and brutishly. All the while I was thinking 'damn, that sounds good.' I'd love to sit on a hilltop, or swing from the sky, a martini in hand, watching the world from above. Disenchanted. I imagined myself in the spring, legs dangling from high high above, watching the boys and girls, friends of mine, strolling around holding ribbons attached to ghosts. These would be ghosts of their particular imaginations: teaching assistants and lovers and dysfunctional grandparents. The ghosts would smile serenely, never breathing in the sweet air, but rather just moving lazily where their masters took them. And then, suddenly, I would toss down a pair of golden scissors, and let someone cut their ghost free. Up up the ghost would soar, breathing suddenly, and into my face. Why does my mind go to these places? I wish I knew. I've been staying up, listening to the moaning winds, and searching for books and pictures and images to make life fuller. Maybe I should just let my bed pull me down, like a heavy weight, down into the fresh snow. It might be nice to just lie there, among the white powder, waiting for the ghost to speak.

Seasons

"There are as many forms of love as there are moments in time"- what a brilliant quote. It's Valentine's Day, and one can't help but think about love. Love love love. That feeling, the stomach flip, the holding of the hip, the secret kiss you sort of hoped but never thought would materialize. You've been there. You've felt it. Or you've looked out the window and imagined. The point is, love is everywhere. We're helpless but to let it blossom and bloom as it wants. The 14th isn't only for the passionate, burning, yearning, sweaty, toss and turn in the night, love. Let's not forget love of friends, family, the stranger whose awkward loping walk makes your heart twitch, the cashier who always gives you quarters for your laundry. Love of all seasons. It doesn't have to be complicated.

The Snow

I like early early morning, 4 am or so, when everything is tired and close. You may find yourself on a couch, in a warm bed, head on shoulder in the backseat of a car. It's 1:11 am in Baltimore, the crisp beginning of another snow day. It's been something of a Snowpocalypse at school but don't worry. We've been busy: cooking and drinking and running and sleeping and reading and laughing laughing and stopping. We've found ourselves in a blackhole, living without time or management. The days have been shapeless and timeless. At this point, we can't distinguish hours or days, we can only remember the last remarkable thing indoors. Outside my window, I can see a shopping cart, empty and stuck in the snow. Is it symbolic? I think it might be. It's an ordinary shopping cart, pedestrian and helpful. And yet, in the snow, it's something graceful, formless, it has no meaning other than to stand still, and wait.

Kick the Can

We watched some footage of the deep sea and I later had deep sea dreams. The ocean deep, full of those swimming, circling, shimmering, singing beasts. It's always terrified me. You want to know what's living in those mysterious reefs and crevices but you're frightened for the inevitable slick bodied beast brushing up against you. In lit class, we talked Pynchon. I walked into class half an hour late, thinking myself punctual, the usual nightmare of everyone bright eyed and pen poised while you are oblivious. Anyway. I walked into half-baked revelations of 'the possibility of nothingness,' 'tragic aesthetics of the junkyard,' 'moment of catharsis,' 'potential formlessness,' 'smoking someone else's body,' 'dandelion wine,' and 'agency.' My head was spinning, fizzing around like a pill popped into water. I feel like I'm always looking for that moment of transcendence, the point at which yes everything is technicolor and yes it's symbiotic and life affirming and totally fucking sweet. When I read, I do sometimes feel that way. And yet, there is always the lapse between the crystal castles that words make, in all of their poetic grace, and the reality of an idea that couldn't ever be described. Too many times, I stutter, trying to put shape to something that is swirling around me. You know the Toreador fresco? The bull in the waves? Like that. Sitting there, coffee cup in hand, I was overwhelmed by the desire to understand. I was losing myself in the pages of it all, and in the possibility of reaching that place, the point where the waves settle and everything is salty and clear. Of course, life isn't linear like this. And a new wave is always rushing toward. I look forward to that too, propulsion forward into a new blue. It's just a question of exploration: pushing your arms out into that deep.

Speeding Toward

Sometimes, you are absolutely filled with elation, expectation, exaggeration. I usually feel that way when I'm with Zoe and Nicole, my two girls from ro ma ro ma ma ga ga ooh la la. They picked up me on Friday morning. Nicole was in full form, clad in a black cape and sunglasses, pulling over to stop at Hop Deli for the elusive elixir we call Everclear. "It's illegal in Pennsylvania" she said, pulling 12345 bottles from the shelf. The ethnic men behind the counter raised their eyebrows. I threw in some bubblegum and we were ready. In the car, we talked shop, catching up on the intricacies of days and nights post European glow. That evening, we made some punch and put on some music and danced for hours at Nicole's loft, a converted tobacco shop (is that right? it was something industrial). The next day, Zoe and I set back on 83 South in what we hoped would be a therapeutic joyride. How wrong we were. We were on the highway, the snow falling quickly as we sped south. All of a sudden, from the white powder, we saw a car stop dead in front of us. Slamming on the breaks, we stopped short right behind said vehicle. The snow settled to reveal cars for miles. All of a sudden, rescue vehicles, ambulances, and fire trucks pulled up, men in neon walking through the cold. We were told to wait patiently, and yes, it would be a while. With typical acumen, Zoe went to the trunk and got us some goodies: a romance novel, a map of the world, and an italian book. We unbuckled our seat belts and proceeded to have ourselves a grand old time. We read dramatic scenes from the epic text "Silk and Steel," I played Katherine, a virginal bride, while Zoe read for Lucien, a man of silken hair and quivering member. We took breaks every now and again, to use qtips, to unwrap a new piece of gum, to pee in cups. In the middle of so much chaos, I couldn't help but laugh. After all, if there is one girl to get stuck with in a snowy catastrophe, it's Zoe. We were finally rerouted and drove back towards Lancaster, with newly salted roads and an appreciation for the steadfastness of her beater car (it's the best). The mountainshills rose before us, endless. I got home about 8 hours later, exhausted and cold. But I have to say, I recommend a February Catastrophe. It'll clear your sinuses and put some hair on your chest.

The Web

It's back to school back to school. I woke up this morning to see about Animal Behavior, a lecture of about a hundred bleary eyed students. My professor was funny, joking about who- knows- what: giraffes mating, antelopes prancing, ants screaming for help. I found myself lost in the concepts, precise and scientific as they were (anthropomorphic blindness, anyone?). As a Writing Sems major, most of my days are spent in the poetic ambiguity of analyzing and creating writing. In my 'reading' class yesterday, a pretty renowned dude curled his mustache and spoke to us of Henry James and Cheever and Updike. We spent about twenty minutes over the phrase 'dirt pink road.' I couldn't help but ask myself..who the fuck cares. It's not that word choice isn't important or that I'm resistant to micro analysis. And yet, really does it matter? Sometimes it seems so useless, so futile to sit and look at other peoples creations and conceptions of the world. Shouldn't I be building a rocket to fly to Jupiter? Harvesting some strange vegetable that will inevitably make your home smell of vanilla and also release pheremones allowing one to breathe easier forever? Maybe. I love to write, and I love to put my thoughts down in a rambling, eccentric, totally personal way. On the other hand, I like the idea of concrete productivity, making and doing things to improve. My pseudo bio class this morning awakened me to the idea of webs of facts, of knowledge that isn't so disputed. Pink dirt road could have been green dirt road or red dirt road, and yes there was a reason for that decision. But the thing is, I could just go out and dig a pink dirt road in the time it takes to figure it out. Reflection and action in equal parts is how I'm trying to get down. Give me a pair of work boots and a tree to carve myself into. I'll be the next Thoreau, hungry for a little nature and true fact.

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I've always had a fascination with minimalism. A white tee shirt, a gold chain, a wide open sky and a home. In the face of grandeur, I turn the other way. This isn't to say that I'm not enamored with splendor and gaudy delight. I am. But the dream is basic: a red suitcase, a sweater or two, an adventure, and maybe a book to write quietly in. And yet, it seems the dream is changing. I packed for school and brought about four shirts, a dress or two, a pair of socks, three pairs of shoes, etc etc. It looks nice hanging there, each item in its place. But it doesn't fit me. At core, I'm a girl of color and chaos. I can't function with a simple tee shirt, unless I bought it from a mexican flea market specializing in something weird and unquestionably ugly. I think it's an important distinction. Are you smoking and gorgeous, alone, ineffable, perfect for a black and white poster, pressed, and delicate? Simple and unadorned? Or are you obscured by a sombrero, a little humid in your fur coat, dancing to the beat, looking to spill some booze on your shirt and eat tacos on the stoop? Not a hot mess but less than delicate. Maybe the two aren't mutually exclusive. A few weeks ago, I was obsessed with the idea of minimizing. I went through my closet countless times, ridding myself of about five bags of clothing. I was hoping to decompress, shed some skin, get back to basics. Now I'm here. And it's boring. This isn't just about clothes, please understand. I'm trying to understand if the clothes make the man, make the woman. Is a Pocahontas lifestyle among the simple cacti something I'm suited to? What about playing Betty Draper among the perfectly steamed curtains? Is there hope for composure coupled with chaos? Get back to me.

Paper Maiche

Have you ever seen Heidi Montag in her skivvies? She's a fright. There are shots in People magazine: Heidi in her underwear, Heidi inked up, Heidi with staples in her head post plastic surgery. She is intent on perpetually enlarging her breasts, in the hopes of one day using them as hot air balloons to float her up up and away. I shouldn't worry about it. Why do I care if she has 12.4i4545 plastic surgeries? But I do. I'm disgusted by the procedures we put ourselves through. We're poking and plucking and tweezing and squeezing and in the end, we're shells made of medical glue. A woman's outward struggle for beauty is never beautiful, sad but true. When Miss Montag has grandchildren puttering around her room, they won't stumble upon black and white photographs of their lovely matriarch but will instead leaf through a recovery journal that details a journey similar to Frankenstein's. I shouldn't care. But I do.