musings

“We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men.”
-Herman Melville

I say…

1. Flicker ::
2. Styling ::
3. Episode ::
4. Sexier ::
5. Studious ::
6. Mushroom ::
7. 8 minutes ::
8. Bald ::
9. Immunity ::
10. Sectioned ::

You think…

“Don’t ever promise more than you can deliver, but always deliver more than you promise.”

-Lou Holtz, 1993

I say…

1. Intimidated ::
2. Brush ::
3. Masquerade ::
4. Procedure ::
5. Tattoos ::
6. Square ::
7. Tuck ::
8. Boyfriend ::
9. Badass::
10. Thousand ::

You think…

As part of my summer of writing, I want to encourage you all to take a look at, and possibly subscribe to, Fray. This is Derek Powazek’s latest endeavor; some of you may know him from JPG Magazine and that whole unfortunate debacle. As with all creative things, Fray is quite dear to my heart (or at the very least my Swadhisthana, my creative chakra).

If I may, I’d like to post part of Fray’s “mission,” because I think it will give you a clearer idea of it’s all about.

It’s about true stories. It’s about proving that extraordinary things happen to ordinary people. It’s about finding that common thread that connects us all together. And it’s an invitation and a dare to get involved: What’s your story?

You would think that after almost a week’s worth of classes on writing, I would have a rather large collection here. Well, not so fast, I would reply. Believe it or not, the craft of writing takes time and patience (qualities that are not my forte). There will be some stories that will make it here soon enough, I hope they will be pleasing to you all, especially considering that they all come from my life and are not fiction (guilty plug there)!

So, all of this to say, that soon enough there will be a new tab/category/section in this lil’ ole blog of mine dedicated to my writing. Some of it will be final copies, others will be works in progress. I hope you all will be kind with your comments and suggestions!

We starve-look
At one another
Short of breath
Walking proudly in our winter coats
Wearing smells from laboratories
Facing a dying nation
Of moving paper fantasy
Listening for the new told lies
With supreme visions of lonely tunes
- Rado & McDermott

I say …

1. Notificaiton ::
2. Cheat ::
3. Top Ten::
4. Draft ::
5. Unbelievable ::
6. Cheap ::
7. Spontaneous ::
8. Harass ::
9. Lipstick ::
10. Transpire ::

and you think … ?

Funny what little insignificant things will trigger a memory…one that isn’t particularly significant, yet perhaps a staple of my growing up in a very unique (? maybe?) environment. My cousin G and I must have been 14 or 15; definitely not 16. I know this because at 16 we were totally shits. At 16 we thought we were the coolest things ever; at 16 we had lost that innocent, questioning look.

Let me also say that my time with my cousins was often split up between the cousins. I had the type of family that had certain rules and if I was visiting with one cousins, I couldn’t really include the others. It all stems from major family diatribes, but that’s for another time. All of this to say that my time with my cousins was fairly concentrated, meaning that our time together always left us wanting for more and the desire to pack every possible experience in that one moment. Maybe it felt like that because we were teenagers.

So, here we were, one gray afternoon. We decide it’s too gray to go out for our usual walk; we decide the best possible thing to do is to listen to music in the living room (where the good stereo was). We’re listening to sad-type-teenage-angst music when we decide to relieve the mood a little, to eat a “cioccolatino.” Well, the only cioccolatini to be found in the house were the ones filled with liquor. This is a particular delicacy that I have rarely found in the states…chocolate being the natural domain of children. In Italy (and I’m sure in other more open-minded countries), teenagers are not denied the pleasure of a kirsch-filled chocolate (or scotch one for that matter). The general sense is ‘moderation’ knowing that you are having a sip of a usually high level of alcohol.

Well, the chocolate was so good, G and I didn’t limit ourselves to one. We carelessly ate them, not remembering that they were filled with liquor and just enjoying the moment. Lo and behold, several minutes into the third or fourth song we both look at each other, singing the melancholic melody, and we burst out crying. We sing along to the melodies, we cry, we hug and laugh at the fact that we’re crying. And we have another cioccolatino to make ourselves feel better, and cry some more and sing some more and hug some more; all the while not realizing that we were very likely drunk, or at least a little tipsy! Hilarity ensued when my aunt walked in asking us what in the world was all the ruckus (my cousin G is completely tone deaf) and nearly had a fit at the sight of the empty box of chocolates.
For the rest of the summer, my cousin and I, referred to ourselves (only privately and maybe in front of my aunt) as the two old drunkards.