Lonely, luscious, lovely
Careful! Too pale of a pink rose can ruin an evening that might have otherwise been romantic.
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“It’s not that you have to achieve anything, it’s that you have to get away from where you are.”
– Marguerite Duras, The Lover
Details are vital. Too pale of a dusty pink rose can ruin an evening that might have otherwise been romantic. Where is the grit, the severity, the ledge? I love you, I am breathless. I am falling out of the sky—no, I am riding on pure delight.
Without grit, the glitter is only decoration, not philosophy. Red lipstick, roses, acrylics, LA Apparel thongs. Being a woman who desires to be known for powers of witnessing/curating beauty on Earth has made me super judgemental. To be the nexus of the sexiest knowledge is the most Gemini desire I have. I have accomplished the opposite of what I went out for. I crushed the beauty that failed to look like the beauty I knew, the beauty I wanted. I tried to extinguish your particular variety because I thought that this pruning was natural: refining.
Like when you told me to stop binge drinking, chain-smoking, wasting precious time. Like when you told me to get out of the house and make money and find value in work. I viciously soldiered for only more of my kind. Sloppily, without knowing that’s what I was doing. I thought I could cut it out of you like marble. I felt that I was living out a virtuous mission. The bubble bursts. Outside the kitchen window, where I am pondering all of this, the leaves are Starbucks green. The nearest Starbucks is three hours away, in Rome, says Google.
Lovely.
I live in “La Casa Verde” — a term coined by the delivery men in this tiny town where we are swallowed up on the map. The house is old and crumbling with four-stories. It is painted a faded, peeling turquoise. Lemon soap, clean linen, purity, freshness on the interior. And me, scrubbing the floors. Listening to Sade, UnoTheActivist. I imagine myself swallowed up on a map. I torrent Girls illegally.
This house is my first real home as an adult woman. Total opposite of my experience renting a room in Toronto, Greektown. Italy has reconnected me with my long-lost femininity (my strength, independence), and with my usefulness (unto myself). I imagine I’m Sandra Cisneros. Or Anaïs Nin on her houseboat.
In the belly of the volcano I fell in love. A strange love at times, ephemeral, glitching–we oscillate, at times overlapping, at times foreign, disconnected. Disconnected not because of lack of love, but due to dissimilarity in individual mission. Autonomy/devotion. We clash in luscious ways. His Saturn spanks my Venus. I’d rather fight with no one else.
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