A few times this winter, I've caught myself nestled up on my couch watching a gritty movie from the 1930s, complete with bad acting and lots on cigarettes. Today's pick was "Reefer Madness" which was likely intended to be an educational film about the dangers of marijuana. Anyways, my point.
As I watch this, with the actors feet tapping to the swung beat, it came over me that all of these young, shining teenage actors are dead. These are the people of my grandmother's generation, and it makes me think how in eighty years or so, who will be seeing my face at age fifteen while the person behind that face is long buried beneath the soil?
I'm trying to be articulate, but lord knows how that's going.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Monday, January 27, 2014
Do You Ever Feel Very Small?
I often find myself sprawled out across my twin sized mistress, extremities extending as far out as they can go, yet keeping the entirety of myself off the floor. It's moments like these where I feel small. I feel small in the shower, where I have to stand on my tip toes against the slippery bathtub floor to adjust the shower to spray on my head. I feel small when I sit in the grass, sun on my back, with a ladybird tickling my kneecaps, when I can tap my knees and feel the bones. I feel small when curled up with a fever, waiting for my mother to bring me a sliced apple, or when I blow the air from my lungs across a small wooden flute bought in China Town.
On the contrary, I feel large when I am in New York City or Boston, taking up copious amounts of space on the crowded sidewalks, my boney elbows poking into the eyes of little kids, my feet trampling subway grates and old candy wrappers. In the lobby of a high ceilinged, ornately decorated hotel, I feel like Alice wherein my blond head will soon meet the golden chandeliers.
I feel small and largely significant when I am alone, yet enormous and useless in crowds and massive architecture, though I am merely an average sized person.
On the contrary, I feel large when I am in New York City or Boston, taking up copious amounts of space on the crowded sidewalks, my boney elbows poking into the eyes of little kids, my feet trampling subway grates and old candy wrappers. In the lobby of a high ceilinged, ornately decorated hotel, I feel like Alice wherein my blond head will soon meet the golden chandeliers.
I feel small and largely significant when I am alone, yet enormous and useless in crowds and massive architecture, though I am merely an average sized person.
Monday, January 20, 2014
Evaporar
A song is always filled with emotions and words, even when there are no lyrics, even if the poetic verses aren't in a language you know. On every beat there's a new glimmer, every delicately strummed chord holds a promise, and every breath creates a sound that I cannot begin to explain to you.
I have recently discovered a song that has held me close. It's a warm song for a rainy day, to keep your chin up and your feet rooted. To keep an end in sight but enough distance to keep you captivated. I don't know what language it's in, probably Portuguese or Spanish. It's the type of song that you want to wrap in parchment wax and keep in your back pocket to be with you on the days where you feel especially lonely. I want this song to dance on the arteries pumping blood to my appendages. I want to embody this song.
This song is not a song that I understand all of the words to. Ill catch the word "tempo" here and "t'aime" here, "Evaporar" echoing through the air that it's sound occupies. You don't need to know the words to know the song. Each note carries me like a breeze across a lake, a journey into a land unknown, promising me that I will return home.
This song is a daisy on a golden summer day, or a bowl of hot broth once you've come home from a hard day of sledding. It's a song for the chipped paint along a windowsill of a house once called home, but since forgotten. It's a song to fit around your ankles like a new pair of socks, to slide around a smooth wood floor on. It's the wind that fills my sails during the first blowing day. It's the crust on the bread that I fed to the ducks. It's the stones on a trail in the woods. It's everything right in the world. Evaporar.
I think I will use that word as a sort of adjective to tell a friend how I am, or what the most beautiful things and ideas are.
I have recently discovered a song that has held me close. It's a warm song for a rainy day, to keep your chin up and your feet rooted. To keep an end in sight but enough distance to keep you captivated. I don't know what language it's in, probably Portuguese or Spanish. It's the type of song that you want to wrap in parchment wax and keep in your back pocket to be with you on the days where you feel especially lonely. I want this song to dance on the arteries pumping blood to my appendages. I want to embody this song.
This song is not a song that I understand all of the words to. Ill catch the word "tempo" here and "t'aime" here, "Evaporar" echoing through the air that it's sound occupies. You don't need to know the words to know the song. Each note carries me like a breeze across a lake, a journey into a land unknown, promising me that I will return home.
This song is a daisy on a golden summer day, or a bowl of hot broth once you've come home from a hard day of sledding. It's a song for the chipped paint along a windowsill of a house once called home, but since forgotten. It's a song to fit around your ankles like a new pair of socks, to slide around a smooth wood floor on. It's the wind that fills my sails during the first blowing day. It's the crust on the bread that I fed to the ducks. It's the stones on a trail in the woods. It's everything right in the world. Evaporar.
I think I will use that word as a sort of adjective to tell a friend how I am, or what the most beautiful things and ideas are.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Three Am
It is ok staying up until three am talking to your best friend on the phone about boys.
It’s ok to giggle about the fact that she owns practically a makeup store and you have 3 sticks of eyeliner and some chap stick, though you both wear the same amount.
It’s ok to poke at your stomach and not like it, and have her tell you that it’s perfect.
It’s ok to stumble out of bed at 7 after four hours of sleep cursing yourself because you have rehearsal in an hour.
It’s ok to be relieved that the rehearsal was cancelled due to the snowstorm.
It is ok to wake up at 1 pm in your basement watching spongebob even though you promised yourself that you would stay awake.
It’s ok to have magic moments.
Believe youself.
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