I always idealize acquaintances – the little bits of emotional intimacy they give me; how warm my heart is after sharing mutual passions – and stumble into disappointment upon learning more about them – the “uglier” parts, so to speak – and, thus, uncertainty settles in my brain. It’s my fault for having initially placed them on a pedestal and having recreated them in my head for the sake of self-comfort. I’m flawed too, after all. I need to built a structure of faith within myself for healthier, sweeter, and more intimate friendships.
Lucille Ball imitating Charlie Chaplin on The Lucy Show episode, “Chris’s New Years Eve Party.”
Favorite Films: Persona (1966)
You know what I thought when I saw your film that night? When I came home I saw myself in the mirror and thought: we’re alike. Don’t misunderstand me, you’re much prettier, but we are alike in a way. I think I could turn myself into you. If I made a real effort.
She fell in love when she was sixteen. He memorized the geography of her blemishes, the crook of her naked neck, and the dip in her collarbone. She melted and exploded like atoms in a fractured galaxy after smoking crack with him, and then he said, “You’re so quiet, babe.”
Whiskey was a fire in her throat, and yet wine was like swallowing moondrops slipping off of a honeysuckle. Sometimes she planted milky white powder like dogwoods inside the blue rivers of her house of bones and blood. During a flourishing spring in April she traced constellations in the sunlit dust after acid seeped into her pores and the taste of honey and sugar hugged the tip of her tongue, and her Mama said, “You’re an idiot, child.”
Brown-sugar curls. Her skin was creamy, a warm brown – like a caramel. Dog-eared paperbacks peppered her bedroom floor – memoirs from dead souls whose recorded lives fissured like cracked cement as you flicked through the worn pages. During lunch she rolled a cigarette like Anna Karina – the first hit after a long spell of deprivation was always a sweet chill creeping down her fishbone-spine – and her high school principal said, “You didn’t think about the consequences, girl.”
Calloused hands stained with ink and ash. A pragmatic person – although her haughtiness curdled against the vulnerability cloaking her naked flesh. She would mock your ignorance while tripping over her own two feet. Humdrum daydreams blossomed like primroses within her mind. Her therapist asked, “What are you thinking?”
“That you’re the first person to ask."
Anna Karina and the art of smoking in Le Petit Soldat (1963).