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.

2

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.

Meet Me Halfway

I just watched Thelma and Louise and I have to tell you, I'm dying for a road trip. I loved most everything about the film: the bedazzled levi jeans, the canyons, the smoking, the drinking, the tanned leather skin, the convertible, the diners, the explosions, the tumbleweeds. I want all of it. It's a classic film, I'm delayed in my appreciation, I know I know. It was just so much more than I bargained for. I couldn't help but imagine myself, driving down a dusty road with my partner in crime, a gun in the glove compartment and Chris Whitley playing from a boombox in the sky. I've never lived in the south so maybe I'm idealizing it. A bottle of cuervo and a map might not be all that interesting. It's not that I'm longing for a cheap motel room and brad pitt in a cowboy hat, seducing me and then stealing my cash from a paper bag, though let's get real: that would be nice. It's more the idea of stolen adventure and a mexican sun, burning spicy hot and waiting for me. One of these days, I'm going to pack a bottle of jack and a straw hat and some apples and take to the open road. It's an experience that everyone needs: a high way to speed along and a friend to clasp hands with. And maybe a dirty explosion or two along the way.

Goggles

I was walking past a toxic waste site when the conversation got crazy. "Sometimes I think about cavemen. Yeah, I thought of them when I was brushing my teeth this morning," Molly said. Previous to this, Rose mentioned her recent vegetarianism, and her hopes for karmic balance in the future. I told her I would pray as I ate my next cheeseburger. Why do I mention any of this? It was just an absurd and meandering conversation, fitting for our walk past crumbling houses and little boys shooting arrows under trees. Baltimore has that rare mix: hicks in parking lots, young kids on bikes, students with their black coffee. It's a little splice of life if you're open to it. I've just returned to this place and it feels good. The sun is shining and the fried chicken is frying and the Johnny Hop is about to pop. I'm looking forward to future absurdism and splendor in the grass. In the City that Reads, you can expect something print worthy. Right?

The Time

On Saturday I'm going back to Baltimore. I have bags to pack and a white room waiting for me. It could be lovely. It will be. Will it be? I'm crossing my fingers and folding my socks.

The Tub

Picasso was a painter and the girl was a bather. It was second nature-to take her weary bones to the bath and soak there. It was something of a joke. She was late for dinner dates, pruny during board meetings. It wasn't a sexual act, though it was sensuous, and it wasn't neurotic. She loved the ritualism of it. She closed the old wooden door behind her and turned on the faucet. As the water rushed from cold to hot, she stood testing the temperature with her toe. When it was warm enough, she put the plug down. Then she undressed, throwing clothes onto the couch. She eased herself into the flowing water, and eventually crossed her legs, too long for the tub. The only inconsistent variable was reading material. It depended on her mood really. If she was frisky, than Vanity Fair, or Glamour, or Hemingway, or the daily horoscope. If she felt ambitious, the Economist, the comics section, a book of recipes. Her mother would speak to her from the other side of the door occasionally. If she was feeling charitable, she would respond. If not, the water rushed on, on and on.

You're Super

su·pe·ri·or (s-pîr-r)
adj.
1. Higher than another in rank, station, or authority: a superior officer.
2. Of a higher nature or kind.
3. Of great value or excellence; extraordinary.
4. Greater in number or amount than another: an army defeated by superior numbers of enemy troops.
5. Affecting an attitude of disdain or conceit; haughty and supercilious.
6. Above being affected or influenced; indifferent or immune: "Trust magnates were superior to law" (Gustavus Myers).
7. Located higher than another; upper.
8. Botany Inserted or situated above the perianth. Used of an ovary.
9. Printing Set above the main line of type.
10. Logic Of wider or more comprehensive application; generic. Used of a term or proposition.
n.
1. One that surpasses another in rank or quality.
2. Ecclesiastical The head of a religious community, such as a monastery, abbey, or convent.
3. Printing A superior character, as the number 2 in x2.

America is superior, or fancies itself so. I see it as a malnourished but sixteen foot tall engorgement of lips and cars and fluorescent lightbulbs and flaking skin. America is keeping me awake at night. I went to Target this morning and could barely open my eyes in the brightness of so many products. In the same place where I could buy insect repellent and nail polish, I could also purchase a ball gown or scuba gear. It's out of control. Exit the Target parking lot and you're faced with Joann Fabrics, and Starbucks, and Circuit City, and SUVS to swallow you whole after running you into bits. I'm drinking green tea as I write this, in the hopes of calming my ass down, but it's not working. Everything is supersize, operating on a mega scale, plastic and unearthly. Nobody needs scented candles and socks for the Alps. Who invented this ridiculousness. I'm buying a house with an eggplant garden and posting up. See yaaz later.

Page 24

She opened her eyes and glanced over. He lay sleeping, arm over face. She scanned the room for anthropological evidence of his mammalian self, settling on a book shelf of philosophy compendiums, an Annie Hall poster, and a few crumpled shirts, monogrammed. She looked back to her assumed lover. He was attractive, with the coloring of an Irish setter. His thin lips were closed but opened ever so slightly with each inhalation. She thought of waking him. Instead, she tip toed naked over to the book shelf and reached for a thin edition of Nietzsche. She got back into bed, opening to her assignment on page 24. She was hung over but she found herself soothed by the lofty ideals, the clarity of the language. As she turned to page 31, he awoke. He turned towards her and opened his eyes. Hi, he said, reaching to bring her closer. The book dug into his side as he tried to hold her. I don't sleep with philosophy students, she said. It's a rule? he said. It should be, she said, waiting for his eventual kiss. He tasted like burning revelations.

Starstruck

An airplane ride provides frozen time. Frozen? I mean paused. During an airplane ride, a girl has an isolated chunk of time to think, bite her nails, drink that awful juice from concentrate, or simply look inside her neighbor's notebook. Maybe those are just my vices. I took a ride today from Boston to Chicago. I sat between a man and woman, he with graying hair and she with a bestselling novel.I wonder if I looked crazy. I would scroll through my ipod, look out the window, scroll through my ipod, hunt for a pen, scroll, close my eyes, get up, sit down, write, sip, sip, tap my foot. I was restless, thinking about my life, decompressing. I would look at the clouds sliding by and imagine myself with arms outstretched, stepping from cloud to cloud before falling through the mists. Maybe it's SkyMall magazine that induces this. My mind can't streamline when faced with teapots shooting tear gas and sweaters made of blankets. I let myself be swept up in the ceaseless emptiness of the sky outside, finally settling on "Time To Say Goodbye," a song that reminds me of my dear friend Zoe and Roman adventures. I wasn't soothed but I felt something, that particular airplane free fall.

127

We took the 127 to see what we could see. We stood at the edge of the highway, looking out over the water. I put a hand to my face and listened for the careful and consistent fizzing of waves. I imagined summer too.

The Boy and the Great Big

I backed up all of my files today (790, 334!) and in the process, uncovered this little diddly:

INTRO:
Lights up. The boy is in a pressed, starched shirt with a bowtie and his hair parted on the side. He is cute. He is speaking to the audience.

Boy: My friends don’t understand. They’re happy. No. They aren’t. And yet, there’s something about their unhappiness that feels safe. It’s something they have cultivated, polished, sharpened over the years. They wear their unhappiness like a mink. I’ve just today, just now at 8:54, realized that I’m unhappy. The best sensation I’ve had on my skin in the last year is my foaming face wash. (Two people push a sink onto the stage. He squirts wash into his hand and then lathers up). That’s the most alive I’ve felt: the hot water running onto me, and the foaming face wash going into my pores, taking the dirt and rinsing me clean. I can’t remember anything before that feeling. I was in love once I think. Her name was Candy. She worked at the corner store and smoked while stacking the cereal boxes. I used to go in every day to buy a new box of cereal. Boy, she’d ask. Yes? I’d say. How can you eat a box of cereal everyday? Aren’t you full? No, I’d say. I want more and more and more.

Lights down.

(Weird right?)

Hypothetical Love Story

I have a re-occurring nightmare: I marry the wrong man. It happened last night. There I was, walking through a flea market with my family, about to get hitched. I was wearing a pink dress with a shawl, shoeless, bemoaning the situation. "I'm not sure if he's right," I said. "What if something better comes along?" Cut to the Space Station, site of my wedding to a boy with greasy stringy hair and sandals. I looked at him and knew it was all wrong. My fiance and I went for a walk and I looked him in the eye and said "I'm sorry, I just don't know you that well. This isn't it." He replied "Are you sure? I want to get married. I love you so much." With massive guilt, I apologized to him privately and then to my assembled guests. They were understanding, maybe even relieved that their young friend was holding off on true love. I woke up at this moment, tired and relieved that my stressful dream was just that. Marrying a bad boy with bad hair in a bad dress is better in the hypothetical.

Burning Barn

I read an article in Vanity Fair this morning concerning cybersex. In this instance, a man called "J" was caught for soliciting illegal sex. The detective who found him was posing as a mother ready to auction off her children for sex. The article was horrific on a few levels. I shivered at the visual of a detective in a low-lit bat cave, luring men into confessions. And at the same time, I couldn't help but feel for "J", the poor shmuck who was imprisoned by his steroid induced sexual urges and suburban two-story duplex existence. Unquestionably, "J" should have been looking for other outlets than cybersex (tantric yoga?) but alternatively, the detective created a situation with the sinister hope of men clicking themselves into purgatory. The article sort of thrilled me. I guess I'm just wondering at all of life's possible situations, real and imagined. The realms are all blurred- reality, fantasy, robots, religion, the age of doom, the age of wonder. We can believe in whatever we like. I guess this is the beauty of Evolution. We can question where we stand, and if it's not satisfactory, grow and change into a new existence that we admire. If I get tired of my real life, you may just find me eating caviar in a barn in Iowa, with fur slippers and a tractor ready to roll.

The Jumper

Did you know men sometimes dance on dumpsters? I saw one such man today. He was wearing an apron and a cap, and he was jumping on top of a dumpster, as if on a trampoline. He had a look of bliss on his face, ignorant of wind chill and spectators. He was content just to jump, up down, up down, forever. I want to be like Dumpster Jumper.

Tall Glass of Water

I was walking through the bitter cold today, stuffing my hands into my pockets and silently cursing the weather. I found myself dreaming of a deserted island, a place where I could swing in a hammock and lose myself among the minimal crowd. I like the idea: clear water, a far off song, and no one to know my name. But it's all a state of mind. I can be in the bitter winds of Chicago, wishing for something pure and unknown or I can recognize what is in front of me. A new year, a new apartment, and new experiences all await. My life as it stands is ripe with mischief. For fuck's sake, my grandmother came to dinner last night with a new beau. He had a gold pinky ring, poured himself some whiskey, and made my grandmother cackle with laughter. It seems at that 75, the feeling ain't gone. She is living a Nicholas Sparks novel, and I, well, I'm just trying to live. I have a new (restored) typewriter and stories to report. And one day, soon enough, they'll be from my own days and nights. Did I mention I played a puritan in a music video yesterday..

Till the Sunlight

I awoke yesterday morning in a panic. I wanted to start a new blog, something epic and fresh, but I couldn't generate the necessary creativity. I brewed some coffee, danced around the house, walked the dog, wrote a little, and then washed my hands of the endeavor. I wasn't ready. Now, it's the second day of the New Year, and I'm excited to create. 2010 is going to be chic, quintessential, juicy, enticing, disgusting, sweaty, manicured, and energetic if I have a say in it. Make no mistake: 2009 was brilliant and I was sad to see it go. I spent a few months in Rome, and I shape-shifted. It happened without my consent, when I wasn't looking. I guess that when I was eating cheeses, running for the train at Termini, replaying that bad Agnes song, or swinging my legs over the ledge in the orange grove, I was changing and shifting and pulling and moving in ways I didn't realize. Now it's a new era and I'm ready to explore. It's Year of the Perfumed Pig and it's going to be a megawatt mess.