Tuesday, 31 October 2017

the theory of the young girl

October 31, 2017 0 Comments
A film still from The Virgin Suicides, dir. Sofia Coppola, 1999
I'm looking for someone who understands what it means to be a girl. Who understands the way we think and breathe and dream and love and prosper in all our beauty and youth. Who understands the way we are imprisoned by our own idealism and naivete. How we learn to suffer through a numbing silence when we are told to shut up and stay static.  How we can never truly know who we are because in order to be a safe shot you would need to have your fate decided by a million other people. The way we learn to care by giving our all, and having to ask for nothing in return. The way our minds can explode into this tipping point of certainty to repressive doubt. Most especially, the way we are taught to love when we only want to love ourselves. 

I'm looking for someone who understands that there is no such thing as the mystery of the young girl.  That maybe you think of us as this cosmic enigma, when all we really learn to be are sirens simply at sea waiting to become a piece of emotional baggage. It's hard to be a young girl because you can't escape the fact that young girls are brought up to be a lost cause. We want to be heard. We want to be spoken to. We want to be someone else's focus of attention. We want all these things at once in order to survive, and the only cure to sustaining our enigmatic state is to know less about the way the world works. The more you know, the more you realize that a young girl should be her own object of desire.

Monday, 30 October 2017

you bring in the worst in me

October 30, 2017 0 Comments
A film still from Stealing Beauty, dir. Bernardo Bertolucci, 1996
A piece of prose inspired by On the Road and Lolita from 2015:
He should’ve seen from the look in my eyes what was missing, because the only thing that could set me free was the existence of his madness. His brilliant, burning madness that pushed me straight into a nomadic tipping point and spiraled into a frenzy of unconscious wandering.

If one day he felt that Brooklyn had nothing left for him – unsurprised by the ironic kitsch – he’d flee to Nevada in an instant. I’d follow him. I’d follow him to the farthest horizon reaching Michigan. I’d follow him from Michigan to Iowa and he’d tell me that I had gone too far this time. Too far from home, and too far from reality. Take me home. He’d cry to take me home, but I’d always respond by telling him that there was nothing to look back to because we had nothing much to lose, and maybe he’d respond by telling me that I was right and he was wrong. Elias never admitted he was wrong. Though when he did, I could remember falling in love with everything he had to say faster than reading the memoirs of road dogs and degenerates from the past. The failed, homeless poets, who never made a penny in and out of their existence, who had to forget about fading away into obscurity because there was nothing obscure to fade into in the first place. He was an embodiment of the many romantic souls before him, but he was no forgettable presence like the rest of them. Everything I did was for Elias. Everything I loved was for Elias.