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.