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Literature
tastes like grapefruit
you stare into the great depths of the sky,
and then you go home and lay down in bed,
but you keep the lights on. You don’t fall asleep.
you think about what earth looks like from a thousand miles away,
how kitchen lights can be seen from space as pinpricks of light,
and
all of humanity, all of civilization,
just looks like a flashlight shining through a spaghetti colander.
I have to tell you something because
you have the type of breathtaking prettiness that reminds me of swimming pools:
Einstein’s typist fell in love with him,
and I’ve always wondered why she did.
Maybe she fell in love with his handwriting.
I try and picture them together.
I wonder if late at night,
he explained to her why time is such a convincing illusion. I wonder if the window was open. I wonder if he was moving his hands as he talked. I wonder if, in the moment she thought she just might love him, she thought all illusions are convincing, but she didn’t say it out loud.
I suppose it
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Literature
for girls who don't drink water
sugar is a familiar feeling
and carbonation is a bit like
finding constellations
in a dark blue swimming pool.
i am tired, so I drink cold
soda to stay up all night.
I hear the stars outside my window
humming
some breathy noise
in another language.
it sounds like tap water
running.
the soda cans and plastic bottles collect in my body,
filling me with flat, florescent orange liquid.
i want to be bottled,
want to be a
never-ending-almost-morning
that tastes like clementine juice, sweet like a flower field, easier to forget
than most things.
because i am tired of making the right choices,
the tabs from the endless cans
are strung onto a long thread
and worn as necklaces.
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Literature
17 million dollars for a house
the cab driver calls me a pretty little thing
as i get in. he starts talking quickly,
saying,
every cab in the world
got Black Ice car freshener,
but he likes this here
blue car freshener
called
New Car Smell
and the green one—he don’t know
its name no more,
but it
makes sure the cab don’t smell like cigarettes. “it don’t smell like
cigarettes in here, right?”
i say no, it doesn’t and
he says his favorite air freshener is
a light blue one
with a picture of the flower bouquet on it,
but they don’t sell that one
anywhere no more.
Everybody likes it too much.
it smells like baby powder,
soft and sweet
like baby powder.
he says all his
kids grown up now.
and his son’s got a new girlfriend every week, but his son’s going
to have to get married soon, gonna have to settle down soon.
time goes by so fast. so fast,
he wants to know
if i know that.
i say
i know.
i know that
because i’m always meeting people
left with only car fres
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Literature
For Paul Going 120 in Upstate New York
In Paul’s truck, I go by my middle name
or my initials. In the front seat, we take turns spitting
chewing tobacco
into a coffee thermos,
and I play with a keychain I bought him, careful
not to make too much noise.
In these seconds of sweat & silence,
I have become unfamiliar to myself. I am
no longer interested in my first name
or any other exciting misspellings of the word
love.
Every hour, on the hour,
Ghost tours pass through the streets
of our hometown,
and
I could give that ghost tour:
starting in the river,
stopping briefly at the mailbox I smashed in with a heavy rock,
and ending above Paul’s eyebrow
where he still has a scabbed-up bruise from baseball practice.
Yesterday, I brushed my finger along it,
expecting to feel the asphalt of the road
and instead felt the warm, wet
red glow of an exit sign.
In the front seat,
it seems there isn’t much of a difference
between waiting for summer and
waiting for Paul
to say something.
He closes his eyes
and tells me
the n
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Literature
my favorite adverb
breathlessly
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Literature
Feeling like San Francisco
I am so certain
of my convictions.
It’s best to drive fast when the road feels like an empty house.
If you follow subway maps, you’ll never know where you really are. You might have gotten on the downtown 4 to Union Square, but you could be anywhere between there
and 23rd street.
I once wrote an entire novel using only the word "warmth"
I feel you can learn more about a book from its title
Than its contents.
If the road feels like the almost familiar face
of stranger you can’t quite place
but you can’t tell
if that’s just because its sadness seems accustomed
or because you know that miracles are usually just confusing math,
you should stop driving.
Every novel lies
by saying a miracle is more architectural that that.
Everything is a sort of cage for bicycles. Even raspberries. Even New Mexico.
I’ll never know what happened to the sugared pastries lined up
behind the glass window of the bakery in my hometown after I left.
What do I do with that knowle
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Literature
Silent letters whistling
Handkerchief fascinations.
Nighttime weightiness.
Limbless sighs.
Numbing light.
Choirs
Know
solemn
hymns.
Christmas
softens
pneumonia.
Fastened
Wrists.
Autumn
Ballet.
Laughghter.
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Literature
Calendars from Poland
Lipiec is July
Sierpien is August
Wrzesien is September
Świeca jabłko cynamon na stoliku is the apple cinnamon candle on your coffee table
Błyszcząca skóra na karku is the shiny skin on the back of your neck
Centrum handlowego w czasie świąt is the mall at Christmas time
Root Beer addech is root beer breath
Na tylnym siedzeniu swojego samochodu is the backseat of your car
Żarówka pali w Calgary is the lightbulb burning in Calgary
Masło barwie światła słonecznego is the butter-colored sunlight
Wiersz, który jest po prostu losowy ciąg niepowiązanych polskich słów is the poem that is simply a random string of unrelated Polish words
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Literature
Minimal surface structure
Describe peeling an orange
Describe going missing
You’re pretty
In the way that
Balloons and soap bubbles
Are pretty
With their
Baby breath stillness.
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Literature
Of color
You will buy a car, and it will smell like sleeping. And our mother will pay for it. Months of hard work to see her sad son smile. The car has no seatbelts, but you weren’t going to use them anyway, right? You were going to date a pretty girl with pretty eyes with pretty skin with pretty feet with a pretty smile who didn’t care about safety anyway, right? She will ride in the passenger seat and pick the music. She will make you feel like a person of achromatics with her pale prettiness. The world will be hue-less just the way you wanted. She will go to rehab and you will forget about her because that’s all you know how to do. Throw people away. Get rid of all the colorful suffering. Discard of what reminds you of the hot sand our mother stood on, the yellow of the fields, the blue of the ocean, the blood of the rebellion. Laugh and laugh and laugh. She knows how to stand on her feet. How to cut people’s nails. How to press their cuticles hard enough to never dra
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Literature
Why do hydrogen bonds make water a good solvent?
from a window facing Washington Square Park, if I stand motionless, I can feel the water clinging to my childhood home where things sat in puddles, dripping onto the floor from the punctured ceiling. If wind whips through my hair, I’m still in a New York City taxi cab
If I feel sunlight warming of side of my face, I’m still with Emma, driving fast through the backroads. I’m hoping she’ll go faster. I’m still watching the peripheral blur into Greenness. I’m still feeling the turns with my stomach, and she’s still smiling like a portrait I saw Somewhere.
I’ve still got this feeling that I’m going nowhere so quickly I can’t feel myself slipping. I’m still swerving through the woods, I’m still looking over the edge, I’m still reaching for something, I’m still thinking of someone’s face before I go to sleep.
H2+ and O-. H is positive O is negative.
Water is the solvent. Salt is the solute. Dissociating
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Literature
I'm bad at math
The answer to the math question you didn’t ask is that the blonde hair on your arm pre-dates the sweetest pause and your vertebrae are always emptying into a thousand ranges in motion.
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Literature
Logan
There are certain places that I’ve never left. If I close my eyes, I’m still underwater in Jack’s living room, and his window is still giving birth to the New World, and I’m still watching the firework show from Nicole’s porch. I’m still treading water in the taxi cab at night. My lungs are still filling with fluid and I’m still leaned against the window’s frame, still feeling pressure on my cheekbone as I wait for one last view of the skyline behind glass. There are certain places I’ll never leave. I’m still on the rooftop. I’m still talking my brother away from the railing. His words are right where I left them. “I’m the saddest person I’ve ever met,” and every time I hear them I’m still thinking we’re all the saddest people we’ve ever met. If I tilt my head back and the ceiling is above me, I’m still in the dentist’s office. They’re still saying I’ve go
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Literature
Chinese takeout menu
I’ve figured out the night’s anatomy,
all the muscles and bones
that fill it.
I found the menu
convulsing
In your kitchen drawer.
Every word
was carelessly placed,
a messy testament
to things you can easily buy
even though they will go down
your trachea
violently.
What will you be
having?
Spasms? Ankle sprains? Sour candy?
There’s a dinner coupon
In my cavity-filled mouth.
You could probably buy my heart for 6 dollars
As if it were a skeleton
built from/for your tongue.
An appetizer served cold
In a paper carton.
Are you going to look right through me?
As if I were coasting along empty space
Consisting only of the neon lights
That advertise
Unlocked
restaurants?
Are you going to stay up all night,
Cracking open fortune cookies
To know what lays ahead?
This is all that was in the paper bag:
you sitting next to me,
thinking your life
Could be nausea
And hotel vacancy.
I know what monsters
are keeping you awake.
I know the plastic Tupperware
And the disposable forks
You&
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Literature
Abrasions
for Eve
The television plays hymns.
Tonight, it is humming about a storm in some town where there are always storms.
Lightning makes the screen luminescent like the frozen projectile motions
pasted into glossy pages of Audubon Eastern Land Birds of 1946.
Tonight, I’ve seen The Great Storm of Channel 12,
so I’ll wait in a cathedral full of candles
to convert the exhausted
to lifetimes of TV set radiance.
In my first sermon,
I’ll teach the insomniacs that love is desperate
And that tattoos are permanent,
but both even these can be soft and beautiful
when televised
in the right lighting.
I’ll tell youth
to tally these years on their skin
with ink and a safety pin.
That is what scripted adolescence is:
Keeping track of yourself.
I’ll stand before a piece of sky slivered by windows
and offer testimony to God’s love
of beauty: I’ll bleach
my hair
and when chunks of it fall out
under the pressure of ammonia
and when my scalp burns
under the purity of
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Literature
the beautiful part
for J.P.K
It’s morning, and it will feel like morning
for a long time.
I’m waiting for a grand finale.
This time, I want one that feels like ribbons
sliding between my fingers.
We line up in the living room.
In answer to a question I didn’t ask,
a pale boy starts crying,
and that makes
the room seem small.
The couches are full of people still hanging onto this place,
but I sip brightly-colored soda
to prove I am a sugary temple
to things that don’t last.
My offerings consist
of bare feet and sweaty palms tracing
the shadows that Saturn’s rings cast on the hardwood flooring.
A skinny girl says she doesn’t want to say goodbye,
and I almost ask her
what’s at the heart of this?
Is it because
we’re already missing things,
all the little things we started with?
I almost tell her I dropped my mother’s wedding album
into the public swimming pool,
and it never floated to the surface.
I almost tell her she doesn’t know
anything about go
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Activity


you stare into the great depths of the sky,
and then you go home and lay down in bed,
but you keep the lights on. You don’t fall asleep.
you think about what earth looks like from a thousand miles away,
how kitchen lights can be seen from space as pinpricks of light,
and
all of humanity, all of civilization,
just looks like a flashlight shining through a spaghetti colander.
I have to tell you something because
you have the type of breathtaking prettiness that reminds me of swimming pools:
Einstein’s typist fell in love with him,
and I’ve always wondered why she did.
Maybe she fell in love with his handwriting.
I try and picture them together.
I wonder if late at night,
he explained to her why time is such a convincing illusion. I wonder if the window was open. I wonder if he was moving his hands as he talked. I wonder if, in the moment she thought she just might love him, she thought all illusions are convincing, but she didn’t say it out loud.
I suppose it’s not any of my business.
I used to think time was about compression: the number of ways you could divide a moment. Now, I’m always counting things (the number of cathedrals and the number of houses with their lights on) as if to prove
everything exists
statistically.
Once someone told me I was a complete waste of time,
and I hated him for saying that
for so long
that I forgot almost everything else about him,
and I loved him, but I’ve forgotten what that felt like,
how it hurt in a language known only to certain kinds of fire.
He probably only said it
to prove to himself that mankind has never needed relics,
to prove that the needle hurts
going in
but not going out.
I know there’s something wrong with you, no matter who you are. I know no one will ever find the right way to hold you. I know that you will always feel slightly-smothered, and you will always think there is something deeply wrong with you,
but you will never find the right word for it.
I know you, and I know you
need relics. Doesn’t the fact that you are full of puncture wounds from countless needles prove that the needle hurts,
not because it is a very fine slender piece of metal slipped under the skin,
but because it takes something
or leaves something that we don’t understand?
and what about the fact that I’m always falling
in love with someone, and I can’t make myself stop falling
because it feels so good to be subject to a gravity that exists
in and of myself?
and what about the fact that i am afraid of thunder,
and i know that
is unreasonable, but fear is something
intensely real,
and what about the fact that sometimes it seems that i am only real
because
i am afraid of thunder?
what about
all that?
doesn’t it have to add up
to something?

Reality doesn’t give us all the answers. It leaves us with blanks that we still need to fill in. And in absence of certainty, we fill those blanks with fiction. And those fictions are necessary because human nature doesn’t allow us to leave spaces empty. Now suppose time was continuous, not just some convincing illusion of continuity—the real deal kind of continuous: past, present, and future, each in a little box, each an isolated incident. Meaning, to be in the present, one must not have any cognizance or recognition of the future or past. To be in the past, one must not have any cognizance or recognition of the present or future. Those rules are simple, clear-cut; if there are any deviations, then the rule no longer applies. Therefore, time's continuity is disproved by the human experience because everyone has some notion of the future and a vague knowledge of the past. Therefore, time is not isolated, and since time is interwoven through the fabric of everything, (and is the principle movement of all things) nothing is isolated. That may seem like a reach (because it is), but how could the principle movement of all things be inseparable yet everything else be separable? And that proves something very important: everything is related; because humans cannot accept this emptiness—this not knowing what lies between— we feel the need to understand how things are connected; we begin to tell stories. We write myths, sing songs, read poetry, make movies that grapple with what we define as real. The neorealist film movement approached this story-telling in a completely novel way. Neorealist films illustrate that a woman buying shoes is not solely the woman buying shoes in one moment. Rather, she is in that moment, a collection of moments—a grand sum of parts that not even she has the capacity to fully understand. There were people who made those shoes. Those people had families. Those families had Christmas dinner parties. The shoe seller had a dream of opening a French restaurant. The shoe seller’s wife was having an affair as the shoe seller haggled over the price of the shoes with the woman. And so on. The moment is in fact made up of an infinite number of microscopic moments. That is what neorealism tries to say, that the microscopic makes up the macroscopic and the macroscopic makes up the human condition. And in this way, it is false. Because the woman buying the shoes does not know any of these things. In that moment, she is a woman buying shoes. Excavating that moment does not produce something more real than who she is in that moment, it only produces fictions. If the woman were to imagine the people who made the shoes she would be wrong; she does not know the people who made the shoes and any assumptions that did would be her own projection of fiction onto the world because reality did not give her the answers, only the questions. It would be impossible for her to look at the shoes and know who made them, any assumptions on her part would be wrong. That is my problem with neorealism. It fails to take into account that people don’t know everything and that any premise otherwise is a projection of fiction. I was fascinated with the idea of neorealism after I read the article Some Ideas on Cinema, and for that reason I tried to find the magic in an everyday bowl of pasta. I imagined the pasta being made, I imagined the people making the pasta, I imagined the human being who made the pasta machines that allowed for the industrialization of the commercial production of pasta. But everything I imagined was fiction. None of it was real. It was magical, and it was fascinating but only in the way that daydreaming is fascinating because it is a break from the tediousness and order of reality. I do not doubt the everyday magic of things. But I do not think neorealism escapes the fictional romanticization that it claims to rebuke. Everyone has experienced the all-consuming, nauseating feeling of having a crush on someone. The object of his or her affection seems momentarily consummately perfect. Mostly because no one knows anything about their crushes. Crushes are half-portraits: shells that can be filled in with only the most desirable attributes. And if you think about it, everything you know is a sort of half-portrait: you don’t know anything completely. Not even yourself. Possibly, least of all, yourself.  Anyway, most of your reality is fabricated: it’s mostly fiction, a mad, desperate attempt to make sense of the unseen connections between every individual thing. My problem with neorealism is the way it hails the daily moment as real and complex when only the simple part of it is real. Perhaps, I am most put out by the idea of an inconclusive ending, in what Zavattini, a neorealist screenwriter, called an homage to reality because reality does not give “superficial,” concrete endings. Anytime anyone sets out to emulate reality, he or she is destined for failure. Emulating reality is taking a half step from it. And neorealism half opens the door to an inquiry of the state of things as they actually exist. It also provides a moral impetus to fully open the door, but there is no way to open the door because the door can only be opened in fractions: every push of the door opens it an almost immeasurably small amount. If you’ve taken calculus, you know that you can cut up the area of some bizarre shape into a series of other bizarre shapes and approach the total area, but you never actually quite get there. You are always just a smidgen off. The door opens to reality: to complete transparency, and its swinging wide involves too many fractions, isolations, exclusions, and approximations to ever fully open. If we were to open that door, we would find ourselves not within another room with another door to open but rather in the only room: the ultimate and final piece of art after which no other art would be necessary as art is needed only to share what is unknowable, to fill the empty spaces. After the final piece of art, all would be understood. Complete transparency. Reality would be intimately known in every capacity. Art expands a moment, makes that moment last forever: the other side of the door is infinitely real and infinitely unreachable. 

also, i would just like to say that i am very tired of making the right choices.

sugar is a familiar feeling
and carbonation is a bit like
finding constellations
in a dark blue swimming pool.
i am tired, so I drink cold
soda to stay up all night.
I hear the stars outside my window
humming
some breathy noise
in another language.
it sounds like tap water
running.
the soda cans and plastic bottles collect in my body,
filling me with flat, florescent orange liquid.
i want to be bottled,
want to be a
never-ending-almost-morning
that tastes like clementine juice, sweet like a flower field, easier to forget
than most things.
because i am tired of making the right choices,
the tabs from the endless cans
are strung onto a long thread
and worn as necklaces.
the cab driver calls me a pretty little thing
as i get in. he starts talking quickly,
saying,
every cab in the world
got Black Ice car freshener,
but he likes this here
blue car freshener
called
New Car Smell
and the green one—he don’t know
its name no more,
but it
makes sure the cab don’t smell like cigarettes. “it don’t smell like
cigarettes in here, right?”
i say no, it doesn’t and
he says his favorite air freshener is
a light blue one
with a picture of the flower bouquet on it,
but they don’t sell that one
anywhere no more.
Everybody likes it too much.
it smells like baby powder,
soft and sweet
like baby powder.
he says all his
kids grown up now.
and his son’s got a new girlfriend every week, but his son’s going
to have to get married soon, gonna have to settle down soon.
time goes by so fast. so fast,
he wants to know
if i know that.
i say
i know.
i know that
because i’m always meeting people
left with only car fresheners
for reminiscing.
he asks me if
I see that house over there.
i tell him
i see it.
he says that house cost 17 million dollar,
and that’s a lot of money.
he says he wouldn’t buy a house
that cost so much unless there were
something really special about it.
i look at it, trying hard to imagine
what could be so special about it,
but i haven’t thought anything
was that special in a long while.
he asks if I know the boston common.
I say
I know it.
he says
that used to be a dairy farm. then the owner gave it to the People of Boston,
and the homeless slept there, but the police kept kicking em out, so there was a big court case,
and now the police can’t do that no more.
because everybody in boston owns a piece of Boston Common.
“Except you because you from New York.”
he says,
and i think about that for a couple minutes,
how i don’t own anything but my shoes
and my headaches,
not even a piece of the oldest city park in the united states.
i don’t own anything, so I ask
You ever think about driving a cab in New York
City?
and he says “you gotta know New York City. Gotta know it like you know your
own body,”
so i tell him
every time, i’m in new york city,
i feel like I know it
like i know my own elbows.
and he says
There already 30,000 cabs in New York City,
and there still ain’t enough people who know it like that.
he wants to know how much the fare starts out at
over there in the Big City.
I say
$2.50
and he says
here, in boston, it’s $2.60. See, he says,
I’m a whole ten cents richer here
and I got me a nice piece of the boston common
to sleep on
when i need to.
Then he plays the radio
all the way
to the Route 128 train station,
where i stand on the platform edge,
feeling like I’m toeing the line of some great cliff.
In Paul’s truck, I go by my middle name
or my initials. In the front seat, we take turns spitting
chewing tobacco
into a coffee thermos,
and I play with a keychain I bought him, careful
not to make too much noise.
In these seconds of sweat & silence,
I have become unfamiliar to myself. I am
no longer interested in my first name
or any other exciting misspellings of the word
love.
Every hour, on the hour,
Ghost tours pass through the streets
of our hometown,
and
I could give that ghost tour:
starting in the river,
stopping briefly at the mailbox I smashed in with a heavy rock,
and ending above Paul’s eyebrow
where he still has a scabbed-up bruise from baseball practice.
Yesterday, I brushed my finger along it,
expecting to feel the asphalt of the road
and instead felt the warm, wet
red glow of an exit sign.
In the front seat,
it seems there isn’t much of a difference
between waiting for summer and
waiting for Paul
to say something.
He closes his eyes
and tells me
the names of the trees growing
along the highway.
When he’s going 120,
the world smears by
into something I can’t label.
“That there’s a birch
and that there’s a maple
and that there’s a fir
and that there’s a pine.”
Some pleasures are small
knots I can’t undo,
and Paul is one of them
because he knows
only one
unrelenting story,
but he knows it so well,
he can tell it with his eyes
closed.

Reality doesn’t give us all the answers. It leaves us with blanks that we still need to fill in. And in absence of certainty, we fill those blanks with fiction. And those fictions are necessary because human nature doesn’t allow us to leave spaces empty. Now suppose time was continuous, not just some convincing illusion of continuity—the real deal kind of continuous: past, present, and future, each in a little box, each an isolated incident. Meaning, to be in the present, one must not have any cognizance or recognition of the future or past. To be in the past, one must not have any cognizance or recognition of the present or future. Those rules are simple, clear-cut; if there are any deviations, then the rule no longer applies. Therefore, time's continuity is disproved by the human experience because everyone has some notion of the future and a vague knowledge of the past. Therefore, time is not isolated, and since time is interwoven through the fabric of everything, (and is the principle movement of all things) nothing is isolated. That may seem like a reach (because it is), but how could the principle movement of all things be inseparable yet everything else be separable? And that proves something very important: everything is related; because humans cannot accept this emptiness—this not knowing what lies between— we feel the need to understand how things are connected; we begin to tell stories. We write myths, sing songs, read poetry, make movies that grapple with what we define as real. The neorealist film movement approached this story-telling in a completely novel way. Neorealist films illustrate that a woman buying shoes is not solely the woman buying shoes in one moment. Rather, she is in that moment, a collection of moments—a grand sum of parts that not even she has the capacity to fully understand. There were people who made those shoes. Those people had families. Those families had Christmas dinner parties. The shoe seller had a dream of opening a French restaurant. The shoe seller’s wife was having an affair as the shoe seller haggled over the price of the shoes with the woman. And so on. The moment is in fact made up of an infinite number of microscopic moments. That is what neorealism tries to say, that the microscopic makes up the macroscopic and the macroscopic makes up the human condition. And in this way, it is false. Because the woman buying the shoes does not know any of these things. In that moment, she is a woman buying shoes. Excavating that moment does not produce something more real than who she is in that moment, it only produces fictions. If the woman were to imagine the people who made the shoes she would be wrong; she does not know the people who made the shoes and any assumptions that did would be her own projection of fiction onto the world because reality did not give her the answers, only the questions. It would be impossible for her to look at the shoes and know who made them, any assumptions on her part would be wrong. That is my problem with neorealism. It fails to take into account that people don’t know everything and that any premise otherwise is a projection of fiction. I was fascinated with the idea of neorealism after I read the article Some Ideas on Cinema, and for that reason I tried to find the magic in an everyday bowl of pasta. I imagined the pasta being made, I imagined the people making the pasta, I imagined the human being who made the pasta machines that allowed for the industrialization of the commercial production of pasta. But everything I imagined was fiction. None of it was real. It was magical, and it was fascinating but only in the way that daydreaming is fascinating because it is a break from the tediousness and order of reality. I do not doubt the everyday magic of things. But I do not think neorealism escapes the fictional romanticization that it claims to rebuke. Everyone has experienced the all-consuming, nauseating feeling of having a crush on someone. The object of his or her affection seems momentarily consummately perfect. Mostly because no one knows anything about their crushes. Crushes are half-portraits: shells that can be filled in with only the most desirable attributes. And if you think about it, everything you know is a sort of half-portrait: you don’t know anything completely. Not even yourself. Possibly, least of all, yourself.  Anyway, most of your reality is fabricated: it’s mostly fiction, a mad, desperate attempt to make sense of the unseen connections between every individual thing. My problem with neorealism is the way it hails the daily moment as real and complex when only the simple part of it is real. Perhaps, I am most put out by the idea of an inconclusive ending, in what Zavattini, a neorealist screenwriter, called an homage to reality because reality does not give “superficial,” concrete endings. Anytime anyone sets out to emulate reality, he or she is destined for failure. Emulating reality is taking a half step from it. And neorealism half opens the door to an inquiry of the state of things as they actually exist. It also provides a moral impetus to fully open the door, but there is no way to open the door because the door can only be opened in fractions: every push of the door opens it an almost immeasurably small amount. If you’ve taken calculus, you know that you can cut up the area of some bizarre shape into a series of other bizarre shapes and approach the total area, but you never actually quite get there. You are always just a smidgen off. The door opens to reality: to complete transparency, and its swinging wide involves too many fractions, isolations, exclusions, and approximations to ever fully open. If we were to open that door, we would find ourselves not within another room with another door to open but rather in the only room: the ultimate and final piece of art after which no other art would be necessary as art is needed only to share what is unknowable, to fill the empty spaces. After the final piece of art, all would be understood. Complete transparency. Reality would be intimately known in every capacity. Art expands a moment, makes that moment last forever: the other side of the door is infinitely real and infinitely unreachable. 

also, i would just like to say that i am very tired of making the right choices.

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