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.