“Besides, being single, married, or anywhere in-between should have no bearing on whether or not we pursue the things that make us happy.” via Why I Travel Alone As A Married Woman — Discover
To many, Persephone is a scandalous love story about a young girl taken from her mother by an evil, dark god. Others might view it as a twisted coming of age tale, with some not-so-subtle-allusions between “womanhood,” fertility, and the bright red colors of pomegranate that Persephone eats. A more promising and philosophically poignant meaning lies underneath the tale. What makes Persephone’s tale so tragic is its necessity: the allure of death, and death itself, is inextricable in the continuation of life, rendering us all paradoxes in disguise. We live and thrive in our dissonances and conflicts, our beauty conceived by melancholy.
Creeping around corners
What is that I see?
Two big eyes staring
Staring straight back at me
Somber stories are worn
Somber stories be told
Of a child much wiser
That never grows old
The stairsteps, creeking
My thief’s gloves are peeping
What is it I need?
The warm heart that’s beating
Their secrets be theirs
My secrets be mine
To be stolen, unwoven, retold
By trepidatious time
I have always been personally fascinated with Miami. Ever since I watched all seasons of Dexter and read all three books, I investigated the cultural climate of the area, reading news articles and blogs, trying to ascertain what could produce such a violent but gripping drama. What I found were stories of trailer park revenge, of people using priceless art to smuggle drugs in their motels, of a man running into the middle of a freeway, naked, covered in peanut butter. And, more recently, a man receiving a court-ordered ban from ordering pizza ever again.
But then I discovered a strain of American history I hadn’t fully explored before, evoked in the show with the beautiful string music of the Buena Vista Social Club playing as Dexter roamed through Miami on his midnight hunt. With just a few Google searches, I found a large community of Cuban-American exiles, who came to Miami to escape the Cuban Revolution.
I am drawn to new journals and notebooks to the point of an obsessive and compulsive craving.
In the bookstore, Walgreens, and paper goods store, I walk directly to the shelves of Moleskins, Paperblanks, stenopads, Deuts187s and Piccadillys. A journal for me is not a just a utility to write. Before the writing even happens, a journal is loaded with meaning.
The binding and the covers claim a stake on what might become of its pages. Paperblanks’ cover images are restored century or even millennia old designs, whose aesthetic is orderly, geometrical, symmetrical, and intricate—foreign to the modern reductionist journal, one with a white cover and a tiny but rebellious black square plastered in the center. The Paperblanks images, which range from equinoxes, silk work from Lyons, the book of Solomon, to Paris Noir, imbues each journal with a sense of historical continuity and connection.
In a Marxist group retreat I attended in Berkeley, California, one man, a city college professor in U.S. History, sat us down at a picnic table to divulge his thoughts on mysticism. (In retrospect, I might have called this “mansplaining.”)
He shared that, when he was on the train to get there, a pigeon flew straight into one of the windows of his train car. This was, unfortunately, its last moment of life. Everyone on the train gasped, and the women sitting directly in front of him started discussing what this could mean. Could God be trying to communicate something to them? Could it be their “spirit animal” committing suicide to send them a message of impending doom?