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.