Sunday, May 26, 2013

I think the biggest epidemic of our time in sadness. I wish I knew the cure.

Friday, May 24, 2013

Sunday, May 12, 2013

I find myself thinking most fondly, on days like today, of my Nona. As a child I found it difficult to understand the majority of what she said underneath the heavy Italian accent, so I thought of her as some mysterious angel that communicated through looks and plates of food. I'd comply with the traditionary trip to her mirror draped in rosaries where she'd secretly slip some chicklets or a five into my hand, away from the eyes of the other grandchildren, only witnessd by the saturated paintings of Jesus and Mary on the wall above her bed. I knew that she wanted to be more of a mother for me.

I think she always had a broken heart, but the day my mom died so did her faith in the possibility of happiness in this world. I remember showing up at her house greeted not by the enveloping hug, the warm kiss, but lugubrious cries from her bedroom. My dad went in and I could make out her wish that Jesus would take her to heaven soon because this world is no good. She fought with my Nono. He was  even abusive towards her at times, swept away by some imagined bacchanal. They raised seven children on the salary of a city-worker, one of whom had downs amongst several other ailments in the family. I understand why she was so tired, and why one day she didn't wake up. 

Nona, just for you, I am going to pin my hair back, like you always told me to, so I can see clearly not only life's tragedies, but the beauty too. Despite the hardships in your life, I think you saw beauty and hope in me, your little Rosanna amongst the thorns. You taught me that life isn't perfect and it's ok to be sad. I think that was more valuable than any fairy tale you could have told me in my language. Happy Mother's Day, Alancita Vicenzino. 

Monday, May 6, 2013

The three of us girls lay on each other's bodies in a bathtub for hours. Red golden light spilled in through the windows and we sipped champaign. A man came to play his guitar for us. It was his house.

Thursday, May 2, 2013

"that mimosa grove-- the haze of stars, the tingle, the flame, the honey-dew, and the ache remained with me, and that little girl with her seaside limbs and ardent tongue haunted me ever since-- until at last, twenty-four years later, I broke her spell by incarnating her in another."

-Nabokov, Lolita

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

Prediction Without Crystals

oh you girls, with your sad eyes and your visions
of fortune-tellers floating in the pond of the crystal
or breathing on your palms in the electric
moment of seeing marriage written surely,

dreaming the silent room where the gypsied woman
flicks dirty cards by the cluttered paper roses,
juggles with love and conjures up initials --

girls in your leisure hours, awkward at parties,
gaming with sugar dice and casting caution
into the cockle-shell of the secret cauldron,

there is no private world, I tell you truly,
no single room for you except the lonely
room of yourselves. I can predict your futures:

bandstand your bacchanals, the blackened alleys
bright for you, cock-crow your reveille
and darkness your desired and nimble dodger;

you'll walk like crow along the winter furrow
wild in a world of day and mean with terror
while hips and cheek-bones squeak and totter narrow

then run from news-reel, strike and strychnine street
into the room of you and die in mirrors
for click and close the camera covers lovers.

-P.K. Page