I have decided to begin using “I” in my writings. I think that will make this blog more bloggy, which is what I was trying to avoid for some time with my storytelling and “honking” but it’s time for a change. I am in fact going to take it one step further and drive anyone who is reading this absolutely berserk by using I at the beginning of each sentence in this post to inaugurate the first-person approach to my entrees (as if my unqualified punctuation and invented grammar doesn’t crack a reader already). I am certain this will be a challenge, but fortunately my laptop is running on reserve and has left me with little than 22 minutes to compose, edit, and post this.
I was out last night drinking from a bottle of vodka in the middle of a sidestreet flooded with designers moving and flirting stylishly amongst each other with a mariachi band and tequila stands in the mix. I was leaning against a vespa on my 8th philip morris when it dawned on me that we were all apart of this grand and very elegant havoc.
I was taking note of the conversations varying in at least five languages, and the laughs which also varied in language, or accent, and the shoes and spring scarves – no two alike – wrapped and hung and tied and twisted, and the liquids flowing in two directions – down the barrel, up the glass, down the throat, up the street, down the shirt, up the nose, down the plastic, up the straw, down the pants, up the wall. I couldn’t help but think that this was all such creative and stunning disorder. I even went beyond the obvious and began to take note of the finer details of clash like the H&M jumpsuit with the Tiffany bracelet, and the Prada skirt with the Disney earrings, and the Patrizia Pepe suit jacket with the Mango handbag.
I began eavesdropping and picked up an impressive collection of phrases and exchanges like “My former landlord in Berkeley had sex with Carlos Santana in the 60s” and “Are you texting J. Crisis?” and “In British they pronounce Roosevelt different than in American” and “He has only three sweaters which he rotates everyday. Someone buy him some more sweaters!” and “That art school in the Hague is recreating the sculpture with blown up elastic gloves tonight at midnight” and “is it mandatory to study European history in US high schools?” and “He is trying to get with every girl he sees and so is his girlfriend” and “All you need is love” and “Come on, come with us to the horse races on Sunday!” and “French fashion vs. Italian fashion” and “watch, in 10 seconds he’s going to kiss her” and “omg, I was trying to save you from that conversation about politics because he will go on all night and you looked bored” and “three more beers and two shots” and “can you roll me a cigarette with your papers from Naples?” and might I add that these were only a snippet of phrases that I was actually able to translate when possible. I think these were the rated-G translations. I wanted to photograph this engaging evening of spring splatter but in the end I realized that a photo could never capture the staggering of the intoxicated, nor the snoring of the trombone, nor the sizzling of spumante, nor the splashing of beer, nor the chimes and clangs of accents and bracelets, nor the couture stitchings paired with plastics, nor the rhythmic gestures and vocal fluctuations, nor the curves of speeches and sways of hips and touches and strokes and background beats. I hope I was able to translate what was only photographic in my mind into words sufficiently.
I ended the evening on a fairly responsible note, leaving no cash behind, nor any large tabs, neither my phone number nor my phone for that matter, nor my bra number – nor my bra for that matter – and leaving no trash behind, no regrettable stories, not even made-up stories. I made it back to my apartment without stopping at the Gyros stand nor drunk texting strangers in my phone, not even talking to strangers on my return. I even broke a personal record which was to be able to mix alcohols – of course always consumed in moderation – and not become hostile nor jealous nor rebellious nor hurtful with words.
I awoke this morning with a surprisingly clear head and only partially puffy eyes, and decided to prepare a spring brunch for my completely, utterly hungover bf. I made a dash to the corner market and bakery and returned just in time to conjure up a homemade egg and vegetable bake with toast and orange juice and DIY cappuccino, with time to spare for that morning smoke and the leftover Prosecco. I called it a fabulous saturday brunch and enjoyed almost every minute of it alone while my bf slept off the nausea. I do believe I have a new spring tradition which entails nothing more than devoting every saturday morning to a brunch bake. I must say, it certainly was splendid and it, well, inspired me to write about it which prompted the entire “I” movement for my latest approach to blog entries. stay tuned.