girl can't keep down
I will bring 2 condoms
a bag of ricola for a bad throat
my dirty hairbrush
the sense of a word
4 lighters and some bug spray
these condoms and a post apocalyptic graphic novel
don't be sad because there is
too much now
to be sad about
and to have to choose a thing
to feel for
just be glad you aren't a Libra
July 29, 2015
July 27, 2015
|A.R. Penck, 1971|
at my pork chop
Can you do this for me
and find out
which is my best astrological
Are you getting tacos
Chicken mole burrito
so good too
I am up late
I haven't been feeling well
so I slept a lot
and a period
Send mail to Maine for now
before my life becomes
I never do kegels
I forget it's a thing
I literally don't think of it
until you say it to me
how many pulses a day
what are mindless tasks to do them during
And you try to hold each one as long as you can?
Or a mix up
I fell in love again
but he's getting married in two months
hard and sad
I had to keep it
wife is a smart lady
I am the life of the party
Hi hello nice 2 meet u
Life of the party here
that have to do
Blessed & Healthy
we are All allowed to be sad
I feel that deeply
I honor my pain
I look at my pain in its cat-faced strawberry face
I will keep this for myself
and when this thing bubbles to my surface
as it occasionally does, that pain
and if somebody asks me on it
I will acknowledge it with humility
I unfold sometimes
but I say thank you when I am
at the grocery store
somebody said to me kindness is magic
there is abundance about you
you don't have to hide even a piece
of your cake
you don't even know
what it is to hide something
Are we all doomed
why did nobody before say It's Like This Women
they must have
Kisses have no effect on me
Soft touches of the hand
back of my neck
A gentle squeeze
Can you tell him?
In a calm, non-reactive way
Just like "I feel sad"
Just like direct, resolution based communication
Just like empathetic and judgment-free listening
Can you try some things?
What else haven't you tried
You have the luxury
of more space
freed up in your mind
space not spent thinking about
the consideration of others
all of the time
but some space is
and in this space you tell yourself
that you aren't the things that you occasionally
might fear you are
because you've been told
by more than one of us
You believe in what you come up with
and in what you decide about yourself
because you've never had to consider the alternative
to not believing
You trust You
should I raise my hand
because somebody forgot to teach me
this one more thing
on listening to oneself
You have the luxury
of writing your own narrative
nobody else has to be in it in order for you To
I don't want to keep mopping the floors clean
before and after you walk
to make you more
June 6, 2015
I am exhausted and eternally grateful for the life I have in America. I am also feeling deeply appreciative of American men. I don't understand at all the narrative my mother was writing when she decided to have children with an Italian, and later another longer, heavier relationship with another Italian. For this to be of any appeal you truly must have a self destructive nature. We accept the love we think we deserve.
My father is a man full of contradictions with an incredibly difficult character about him. I think he was expecting an attack from me and he has been quite "on guard." His attitude leans towards righteous and arrogant, and he's made sure I know he is entirely proud of himself. As I mentioned in my first letter, he also spends too much time concerned with my appearance and style and finds it appropriate to dress and objectify me. Considering the relationship we don't have, this is not appropriate behavior. I'm not sure if it would ever feel appropriate to me. But this is the Italian way. He is controlling and he looks at the world as if his truth is The Truth to a degree I have not felt the energy of before. So far we have only had one major meltdown together (though I've had a few on my own) where I had to leave a crowded dinner table mid-meal. Something racist, something homophobic, something something. I denied his company for the rest of the day and for most of the one that followed.
I was plagued with the feeling that I could not spend any more time with him. Certainly I could survive the 7 days left with this man, but at what cost, for what purpose? I hear voices of some people I keep close telling me to keep an open heart for the remainder of my stay and I hear voices telling me to Get The Fuck Out because I Don't Owe Anybody Anything. What does my voice tell me?
Must I suffer another man's control, objectification, stupidity, and bigotry, even if this man is my father? "father"
Do we accept our parents regardless of who they are? Perhaps if it was you with your parents, or me with my mother, we would look the other way when it came to differences in opinion or outlook. My mother raised me on The Golden Rule and lentils, and has never ceased to share love and support, as pure it gets. And so even if her views differ from mine, I respect her. I care what she thinks and how she feels. She has positioned herself in such a way that she has a compelling and authentic platform to speak from: she loves me unconditionally. Alternatively, my father has allowed for silence and oceans between us and the only thing we've shared is space. Perhaps when it is the only thing, blood is not enough.
For Lorenzo, it seems everything is difficult. The heat, the crowds, waiting in line at the market, the metro, walking up stairs, anybody who does something differently than he would. He curses under his breath regularly - "cazzo," which translates directly to "penis," and the tension is palpable. I'm just not used to enduring this energy. It is a testament to the importance of not letting other people's shit become my shit. People really want to give you their shit.
There are times when my father surprises me. He is materialistic, snobby, he wears a slight distaste for the poor, but I've noticed he gives money to every street musician he sees busking. The first time I saw this I couldn't believe my eyes and wondered in fear what he could possibly want with that man playing guitar on the subway platform. Finally, a soft spot.
"Do you still play guitar?" I ask him while bringing forward murky memories of his effortless ability to play and sing.
"No," he replies.
"Why not? It's something you never forget," I ask.
He looks to me from the corner of his eye and pauses briefly."She forgets you."
June 1, 2015
I pull my bag off from the carrier after emotionally wading through an hour without sight of it. I walk towards a standing crowd of many, people in waiting, all of us in waiting, and I see my father immediately. He stands at the front wearing a sky-blue and neatly pressed oxford button down, well-fitted slacks of a mature khaki. He looks better than I expect him to, slimmer and with a handsome grey beard, even with more hair than I've been picturing. He extends a firm hand to shake mine, he shows no emotion.
"You are an hour late," he blurts with expectation. I mutter an excuse, it rolls off of my tongue and without any consideration - for myself. I boil inside for doing this with such ease, for explaining, a natural at taking something on. As if there is an excuse, as if there is any other explanation than being at the mercy of AerLingus.
I think about how funny it would be to say "And you are 15 years late" in response, but I don't because I am nervous and smaller than everybody. He insists on rolling the suitcase I've brought with me behind him, but he doesn't want to do this for me, or for anybody. I can tell by the way he drags it without a trace of altruism and he has yet to smile. I pass by women taller than me who wear strappy stilettos, tanned and knobby-kneed. I see how much skin they leave bare, I feel how covered I am, cashmere in June and all black, well-loved Blundstones on the bottom.
His heart is tight like an empty fist and I feel an overwhelming and almost nagging need to see Edoardo, the other, more prominent, Italian father-figure in my narrative. Am I here to see the wrong man? I like to think Edoardo would be happy to see me.
My first night in Rome I sit for dinner at Orietta's house. Orietta is my father's older sister. She is 70 years old with hydrated, almost succulent, olive skin. Her frame is petite, and always she has lived alone in a decadent apartment off of Via Poliziano in the southern corner of the city, down by the Colosseum.
I am so pleased to make her acquaintance. She seats me at the head of the table soon after I arrive and pours us two short glasses of Chardonnay. I know this will be my "place" for the duration of my stay, and I am grateful to have this vantage, to sit beside no one. I feel warm and lulled watching her move about the kitchen, her pace about things mesmerizes me. She is always moving, handling food, pouring wine and water, or lighting up, but you would never know it until the small bowl of pasta appears in front of you, hot with magnificence, and a feast begins.
Joining us are two friends of my father's, Gigi and his wife Daniela. They are jovial and air flows about them. Gigi is kind, inclusive, he remembers me as a baby, and speaks regularly in a non-predatory manner about how "carina" I am. "Especially the eyes," he says in Italian. I am relieved to sense how well I understand conversational Italian, the bodily delight of getting another language. I find that the only time I have trouble deciphering the constant chatter is when they turn to matters of gossiping about people I don't know. I feel blessed for this inadvertent and contextual deafness. I'm not expected to contribute to the conversation and I take these sporadic time-outs to smoke a cigarette and observe the room while turning inwards.
Also with us is Karly, a young man of 40 who I come to understand as an adopted half-brother, the son of a woman my father was with for many years after my mother. I vaguely remember him, but somewhere in my memory he's there. He is well groomed and meticulous, noticeable immediately. He is wearing a Putin t-shirt and I point "Ha!,' a move that I assume will manifest in shared jest between us. He also reveals little overall emotion, but I figure that he is not joking with the t-shirt when he states "Putin is a traditional man with traditional values. Whats wrong with that?"
I want badly for somebody who knows me to be with me in solidarity as a witness, a laughing fly on the wall. I couldn't make this up if I tried, excuse me while I take notes for later. Karl and I exist on two separate lines, and yet I am inclined to feel true respect towards him. I still like him alright even after I pull out the extremist and somewhat hateful perspective he holds. He's not after me. And when dinner is over, he is obliged to take me to the B&B where I am staying alone via motorino. He drives fast and wild but not without intention. I know I am safe, I just know his mind is sharp and focused. I like the way it feels to have confidence in someone else and somewhere I least expected it, I like it even more.
May 25, 2015
I see the screen adaptation of Far From The Madding Crowd and it feels indulgent, taboo even. To get so unabashedly lost in another world, my only desire. Rolling green hills, sheep, a farmstead. A heroine. I will not feel shame for feeling a fantasy. Another time and place, but one you've been through before, or perhaps one you will someday meet. Is that not why we are wont to drown in film?
I am one of four women in the theater, all of us alone together and meeting at the midweek. What do we share? Why tonight, you? I watch the screen and long for a braid that falls down my back with it's own echo. I imagine my own land.
In two days I will go to Rome to see my father. We have not seen one another or had contact beyond a postcard and a single exchange of letters in 15 years. I will take care of myself in my mother's home, holding fast to a steady flow of courage until its really time to go.
April 30, 2015
January 27, 2015
I moved to Vermont, a township rural and small, not for the man or the mountains, but for the library that doesn't collect late fees. I fall in love with books, I cannot let them go. But what is a book if not shared?
It has been suggested throughout my checkered academic odyssey that Thoreau may not be for everybody. Wrong.
Maybe Thoreau's spirit resonates with me so right because I grew up a mile down the road from his woods (if only this actually made me cooler...). Romance and sentimentality aside, perhaps the magnetic sensation is widespread, is because his writing is celestially ubiquitous, the intrinsic brightness of a star. See: I to Myself: An Annotated Selection from the Journal of Henry D. Thoreau
July 19, 1851
Here I am thirty-four years old, and yet my life is almost wholly unexpanded. How much is in the germ! There is such an interval between my ideal and the actual in my instances that I may say I am unborn. There is the instinct for society, but no society. Life is not long enough for one success. Within another thirty-four years that miracle can hardly take place. Methinks my seasons revolve more slowly than those of nature; I am differently timed. I am contented. This rapid revolution of nature, even of nature in me, why should it hurry me? Let a man step to the music which he hears, however measured. Is it important that I should mature as soon as an apple tree? aye, as soon as an oak? May not my life in nature, in proportion as it is supernatural, be only the spring and infantile portion of my spirit’s life? Shall I turn spring to summer? May I not sacrifice a hasty and petty completeness here to entireness there? If my curve is large, why bend it to a smaller circle? My spirit’s unfolding observes not the pace of nature. The society which I was made for is not here. Shall I, then, substitute for the anticipation of that this poor reality? I would [rather] have the unmixed expectation of that than this reality. If life is a waiting, so be it. I will not be shipwrecked on a vain reality. What were any reality which I can substitute? Shall I with pains erect a heaven of blue glass over myself, though when it is done I shall be sure to gaze still on the true ethereal heaven far above, as if the former were not,—that still distant sky o’er-arching that blue expressive eye of heaven? I am enamored of the blue-eyed arch of heaven.
Thoreau, Henry D. I to Myself: An Annotated Selection from the Journal of Henry D. Thoreau.
Ed. Jeffrey S. Cramer. New Haven: Yale UP, 2007. Print.