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if i look back, i am lost
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KIROKAZE
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@alexandraditalia
Dear Pamela Adlon
Dear Ms. Adlon,
On fan letters.
I don’t do this. The last time I was truly, unabashedly a fan was when I was 8. I was watching reruns of The Partridge Familyand in love with David Cassidy. While other kids went to the store to buy Tiger Beats with pictures of Donny Osmond or Michael from Good Times, I begged my mom take me to garage sales to look for old magazines with David Cassidy on the…
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On Abandon, Too
I wanted to be a witch. I wanted to make potions and live in a world of Faerie or possibly in a dense forest of gigantic trees. I would sleep in a bed of moss.
Yet in my witches club, I anointed myself president and had so many rules, I ended up playing by myself or coming together with my friends not to make potions and enchant the sky, but to make my little sister drink mud. To make it…
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Are you having a cocktail with that Zoom?
We were having a Zoom cocktail party—our second one. We spoke one person at a time. Anything happen this week? How’s your sourdough starter? Is everyone okay? We took turns reporting.
I had looked forward to the Zoom room cocktail party. No one could trap me in a side conversation about some personal problem or work issue while there were other, funnerconversations going on. Instead, all…
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On Emerging Female Sexuality & Power
On Emerging Female Sexuality & Power
The boy asked my father if he could take me out that night.
The boy had shiny dark hair. Naturally tan skin. His teeth gleamed. He would have been the most popular boy in my hometown of Maplewood, New Jersey. Here, he was just another Italian.
We were at a café in Rome with tables so small my parents, sister and I clustered around the table, our pasta plates clinking. The boy and my father…
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On Body and Perspective
On Body and Perspective
My sister hates this picture of me. She sees bone and teeth. She remembers me as unhappy.
I see perfection. I was 17—happiness was irrelevant! It was 1985 and breastless and bootyless were the ideal. My mother, a waif herself, drank Tab, smoked Benson & Hedges, and always had laxatives and diet pills in her pocketbook.
I wanted to be just like her.
I lived on 700 calories a day or threw up the…
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Monologue: On Alexandra Leaving
Monologue: On Alexandra Leaving
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Teenaged boy is sitting in his room listening to music blaring from the living room. Every so often he paces and texts in a ranting motion.
Are you listening to this? I mean, do you want to a) slit your wrists, b) poke your eardrum with a knitting needle, c) slit someone’s else’s wrists, or d) kill the person playing that FUCKING song AGAIN. …
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On Emergence and Creativity
On Emergence and Creativity
The turtle peeks out
lush green and water falling
Time, again darkness
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On the Angst of Travelers
On the Angst of Travelers
I was in northern Hungary, and I needed a break from my traveling partner. After weeks together, we strained under the expectations we laid on one another.
I saw the town name Egerszólát next to an arrow pointing west on my map of Eger. In my Lonely Planet, I scoured the chapter and the author noted only that it was a quaint wine town. That was the only reference. No dot marked the location of…
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On the Angst of Travelers
On the Angst of Travelers
Limbe, Malawi
I asked before I took this photograph. I asked in English, not Chichewa. They nodded. But in any language, that nod was reluctant. Let the Mzungu take the photograph. I smiled and said zikomo. Thank you.
They waited. I wondered how much the platter weighed. At the volunteer house, I had tried to balance a bucket of water on my head the way I’d seen women do. I got wet.
I fumbled—I…
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Angst
And puts her art in progress here too…
On the Seriousness of Tourists
On the Seriousness of Tourists
Rice cooked in the bamboo. The smoke kept the bees away. So she hovered by the smoke and waited to eat.
She was leaving the rice farm the next day. She had been the eldest person working the farm by a decade. She was both proud of that fact, and lonely that she had to do it alone. She drank the water from the ceramic urn that the farmer’s wife said came from the mountain. She only saw a…
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On the Seriousness of Tourists
On the Seriousness of Tourists
“Dude, don’t ask for my water. Not cool. You shouldn’t have drank yours so fast,” he said.
His sister had banned plastic water bottles from her home. She said it was the right thing to do. He agreed, but he still drank the free ones at work. They were free, after all.
Before he left, she gave him a lightweight canister and tablets for the trip. She warned him about plastic bottles and the…
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On the Hopefulness of Protest
On the Hopefulness of Protest
He stood under the blue sky. The forecast said rain. The sun warmed his face even as the crisp air forced him to shiver. He didn’t care. Here he was on January 21, 2017. It was going to make history and his wife had the flu.
He had planned to watch the game.
Fight ensued. So here he was. His young daughter wearing a Future President tee-shirt over a thermal shirt. Already as stubborn as her…
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On the Seriousness of Christmas
On the Seriousness of Christmas
She believed in Santa. A man who jingled in the skies. She did not necessarily believe in the chimneys and Rudolph, but she believed in the magic. She heard the bells and said to her parents, “don’t you hear them? I can hear them. I hear the bells.”
She was never quite sure who Santa was, but the world was small to this seven-year-old and she was sure she could figure it out.
Once, she…
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On the Seriousness of Tourists #16
On the Seriousness of Tourists #16
Whenever I tell people that I went to the Yucatan in the summer of 1983, that I slept on a beach in a hammock, that I ate live conch cut out of the shell, that I hiked into the jungle led by a machete-wielding man named Alamon, that I hiked and crawled deep into cenotes not fully excavated, they tell me, “that’s how you got into travel.”
I say yes and let the moment pass. It’s the cool story.
B…
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On the Seriousness of Tourists #15
On the Seriousness of Tourists #15
When I was sixteen, we went to visit the Italian family who had sent their daughter to live with us for a summer; she had been our exchange student. She wore her jeans faded and tight. She once sat in my Dad’s lap as a joke, or at least that’s how we choose to remember it. She had wavy dark blond hair and wore the high-heeled sandals I begged my mother for. Her chatter was ripe with stories…
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