New Years is a bit like a light switch.
We hope we can flick it off and on and poof. The greatest version of you stands in front of you. What do you see? Does she do pilates 3x a week and read manifestation books? I remember my first one was in 2016. I resolved to pass my AP Lit Exam and to become the graduation speaker. Which of those do you think came true? I’ll tell you it wasn’t the one I could study for. I went back and looked at all my resolutions from then till now and was shocked by how many had stayed the same. It’s not like I remembered. I simply wrote what I felt I needed that year-- To exercise, read more, book a film. Write my screenplay, publish my poems. Spend time with family. Be nicer to my brother. But here is the one that stood out the most: “Positive thinking. Not doubting myself or trying to justify my dreams.” (2018) “don’t fear/dwell on the future.” (2018) “Take up your space.” (2019) “Manifest.” (2018) “manifest.” (2020) “listen to my inner voice. Be less anxious.” (2021) “believe in your self with all the courage and willpower you can muster.” (2022) I look at that and I feel that I am all those things I seek to be. Filled with self belief and deeply assured that I’ll achieve said dreams. And yet, I write them. Because I also feel, entirely not. The interpersonal work always seems to be the hardest. Funnily enough, it’s the ones we can’t entirely control that are often the ones that come true. The cosmic irony of life. You can tell yourself you’ll write your bloody screenplay every God damn year, but you’ll end up booking the Off-Broadway play. Because it all happens in its own time, doesn’t it? Because although we’d certainly like it to be, it’s almost never as easy as flipping a light switch. Also—hello from Brooklyn. Stories of Brooklyn Saturday, January 1st, 2021
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I’m losing faith.
For all my life I’ve wanted to be an actress. But lately I’ve fallen astray: By the bureaucracy of an industry. There’s the art and then there’s business. I don’t know if I’m much good at the business… Subtle power plays with people meant to help you. Gate keepers. Those who influence you into believing what is good and bad art. The constant inconsistency. The happenstance of it all. Mediocre scripts with expensive funding to produce cheap entertainment. I’m not supposed to turn down those auditions because their “stepping stones”, I tell myself. Because the world isn’t wrapped in a cummerbund that says “Ava’s hopes and dreams” written across it. But God, the artifice of it all. The disempowerment of it all. My parents are immigrants and we are Persian. Persian + immigrant means you succeed. You don’t survive. You thrive. You reach the highest degree of excellence. These are the stories we tell ourselves. The self inflicted narrative of who we are. I want that for myself. I’d be a liar if I told you I didn’t have an ego or the blood of high ambition searing through my veins. Who doesn’t want an award in their hand and an article to tell you you’re worth something. But what’s the price? I was in Madrid a few days ago. My friend, Maddie and I, wanted to watch a flamenco show. I looked out the window and saw a theater across the street from our Airbnb. I looked up its name. It just so happened that a show was starting in an hour. A lick of fate. It was spectacular. It’s one of few times where I can use that word and mean it with every syllable. It was spectacle but without pretense. Power without machismo. Men danced with their hips and stroked their own bodies and flipped their hair, while women stomped and widened their legs and led with their chests. It was a display of feminine and masculine and yet it was genderless. The rules of the world didn’t apply on that stage. It felt like they had been picked up from the party in their living room and dropped onto a stage to invite us all up. In theater we have something called the liminal space--the space in between. What separates audience from performer. Here though, there wasn’t one. I felt at any moment any one of us could have gone on stage. (Which, people did. I’ll tell you more about that in a second.) They had each and every one of us in the palm of their hand. My friend sent me an article the other day that talks about two forms of time: Kairos and Chrono America and China= Chrono Spain, South of Italy, & Greece= Kairos Chrono appeals to clocks and calendars. Kairos however, is an intuitive kind of time. Kids are the best at it. They play and when they don’t feel like it anymore, they move on. The Chrono mother is the one who reminds his son to get up from the dirt and get ready for school. With Kairos, things change when they are ready...So they danced longer if they wanted to. So others joined in if they felt compelled. After the flamenco dancer had finished a 10 minute routine, the guitarists rose and clapped for her. The rest followed. So, they were generous with one another. At the end, the toddler son of one of the flamenco dancers came up on stage. He clapped in time, as he’d seen his daddy do many times before. Another man from the audience came on stage and they put a mic in his hand. Stripped of status and ego. Maybe they won’t get paid much. Maybe they won’t be on big billboards across Sunset Blvd. People won’t know their names. They won’t have international glory. (Or maybe they will, who knows anything.) But they looked fulfilled. Unburdened by a value system and industry that vomits in your ear “Chrono. Chrono. Chrono.” I’ll never forget the flamenco dancer who danced with such power and seduction that she could have killed with a kiss. I’ll never forget the guitarist who dragged a chair center stage and played us a lullaby so moving that people in the audience called out Ole. Ole. Ole. Ole. Ole. Stories of Madrid Friday, December 24th, 2021 I really miss my mom. And home. The sinking feeling began yesterday. I don’t know what changed.
Perhaps it got colder. Perhaps the novelty wore off. I want to go find safety in the arms of my friends. To sleep in my bed. Eat my mom’s food. Hear Oliver-my dog-barking in the background while my dad and I cozy on the couch. I’m writing this from Kensington Palace doing Afternoon Tea. They’re playing Christmas songs on the piano. When I was in choir in high school our choir teacher, Mr. Tuttle, taught us a whole repertoire of Christmas carols for us to sing around the community during the holidays. Right now they’re playing In the Bleak Mid Winter. I wish I could turn around and see Mr.Tuttle conducting us. I wonder if you’re conducting an angel choir. Maybe it’s you playing the piano. Maybe you’re saying hello to me through the frosty wind made moan. I’m really lucky for the time I’ve spent here. The people I’ve met, the love I’ve found in my solitude, the change in tempo. I’ll be in New York in a few weeks to work on my first Off-Broadway play. I’ll be staying in Brooklyn. Perhaps there’ll be a Stories of Brooklyn (hehe) Until then-- Stories of Notting Hill Friday December 3rd, 2021 I danced with Jews this weekend. In London there’s an annual event called Buttmitzvah. It’s a big queer Jewish party. And when I say party I mean a huge venue with over 500 queer Jews and their friends—both straight and gay— dancing the hora under purple lights with glittered faces. We spun in circles to the ancestral tunes of Hava Nagila and Mizrahi music.
I’ve never been in a room with so many non middle eastern people dancing to my people’s music. It felt like my bat-mitzvah. When we party bussed a bunch of 13 year old kids from Redlands to a fancy venue in Los Angeles. They too, spun in circles. They too, dipped their heads and danced to Persian and Jewish music. I don’t believe in God but if I were to meet her, I think it would’ve felt something like this. Looking up at those purple lights…exaltation. The unspoken understanding. All the cultures from far and wide, from every corner of the world, and yet the songs and dances, we all knew. We didn’t so much as skip a beat. I didn’t realize how much I longed for this. For Jewish friends. For Jewish spaces. For spaces for us to celebrate. And our friends alongside us also celebrating. I know to some, it was just a party, but to me, it stirred me awake. A rude disruption of all that I’ve been disconnected from and how deeply I want to reunite with it. I think I’ll go buy a menorah tonight. Light the second candle. It’s Hanukkah and I’m alone in an apartment in Notting Hill. But God dammit, I’m celebrating. Stories of Notting Hill Monday November 29, 2021 A lovely friend gifted me a perfume. It’s woodsy, smells like man, and I like wearing it. I spritzed two too many and now I smell like a boy’s gym and I want to throw up.
My friend Tomasso, the barista you all know and love, has tried to make loose plans to hang out outside the cafe. Emphasis on loose. He was eager at first but slowly it’s dwindled. He’s made them and cancelled them for the third time. Tonight being one of them. A man with empty promises is like a glass without water. Another pursuit, Samuel, texted me everyday long enough to make plans. In which on Sunday I responded Tuesday afternoon sounds great :) Well Tuesday came and left and he only now responded with “I flopped. When are you free next?” For you, dear Samuel, not again. Maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe it’s the energy I’m putting out. My friend Sinéa read my tarot cards and said that I’m attracting men into my life who are not for me. I know that. I’d never date these guys. I thought I wanted to be single and to enjoy in light-hearted fun. I just didn’t anticipate how frivolous men could be. I thought when they were in pursuit of you, it’d be different. I ended a relationship partially because a man was frivolous with me. I went through 10 months of dating a man who didn’t care for Friday night dates. Now I’ve entered the world of dating where the only thing a man can commit to is however far his words will reach. But not nearly far enough for his legs to walk. Except if prospects of his penis is involved. He’ll marathon sprint, with his penis as a third foot leading the way. (Sorry Mama if you’re reading this.) Disclaimer: I don’t think all men are trash. I get this burning feeling when we, women, talk about men like they’re animals (I know I know I’m a hypocrite). It’s reductive. It means we’ve already assumed the worst in them. I like to advocate for the best in them. Innocent until proven otherwise. My father treats my mother well. My brother treats his girlfriend well. The men in my life have been good to me and show me that there are men out there who are not only willing but wanting to put in the time. I know this. And I believe it to be true. I think I’m craving someone whose words reach far enough to move their legs. I think that’s why I like the masculine perfume. I think that’s why I spritzed it on myself two too many. I think I’m craving. Starving maybe (if we’re being melodramatic). Maybe Sinéa’s right. It’s empty at the end of this road. I think it’s time for a different approach. Stories of Notting Hill Tuesday, November 23rd, 2021 I hate when people ask how old I am.
Especially after a night out dancing… What are you trying to determine? I’ve gotten the sense more than once that some equate enthusiasm and energy for naïveté and immaturity. It eats at my worst insecurities. Will they think I lack depth? Not to be taken seriously? Here’s a manifesto:
Miriam Margolyes once said, “you have to know with whom you have the pleasure of speaking to.” You would not behave at a 5 course meal with your parent’s friends in the same way you’d behave at a sticky floored bar with a group of twenty-something year olds. Sure you’re still you, but you modify. It’s called propriety. I recently danced and partied with a set of wonderful strangers. However, partying with new friends can be a dangerous thing. Their first impression of you is under the strobe lights at a discotheque. They haven’t had the pleasure to speak with you at a quiet cafe with a tea in hand and exchange childhood stories. I was sober. I’m always sober, I don’t like to drink or smoke. And yet, I was, and have often been called, the coke of the evening. How do you have so much energy? They say. We’re getting our energy off of you. That part doesn’t bother me. I usually wear it like a badge—or shall I say bag—of honor. Get it? Bag. Bag of coke. Okay, moving on. If only they knew that I was getting my energy off of them. New and kind and open hearted people. But sometimes I can start to feel insecure. When I get the sense that my enthusiasm is closing in on me. That it’s all they see. A salsa, a samba, and the coke of the evening. Stories of Notting Hill Tuesday, November 23rd, 2021 There was a man on my flight back to London tonight. He was also on my flight to Catania on Saturday. Call it fate. If I noticed him then; I definitely noticed him now. I saw him in the boarding line at our gate taking off his pullover. It felt chemical.
We kept sneaking glances at each other on the shuttle to the plane. Sometimes I’d stare a little longer, daring myself to hold my gaze if he looked back at me. There was a rush in the secret game I was playing with myself. But somehow he could feel when I was looking, so he wouldn’t look back. I’d like to think I’m a pretty self assured person but a pair of eyelashes and the prospects of rejection can really make a girl go silly. Here I am. Watching his biceps and lashes whilst plotting how I’d approach him and how he’d respond. I think I played out three 1 act plays. Suddenly you don’t know how to operate the body you’ve lived in for 23 years. Why am I stretching my hands up to the rail on the bus. Why am I pretending to sleep on the plane. I moved to the back of the plane to “sleep” in the empty aisle. He was just conveniently right across from me. I’m so embarrassed even writing this, oh God. He went to the bathroom. Should I go to the bathroom too, oh my god stop Ava before you have a mile high fantasy. Or don’t. Hehe. Our flight landed. Stood next to each other in customs. Got on the same shuttle. Each checkpoint getting closer to our departure. Tapped our Oyster cards to the subway. Still right behind one another. Him behind me. Me behind him. Adult tag. But keep it subtle. And then he went to platform 1. I to 3. They were in opposite directions. But then I saw him whip around and—-- He went back to get his friend. Now I’m on the subway home. Stories of Notting Hill Tuesday, November 16 2021 I hate goodbyes. I always feel it in my hands.
My palms ache and feel weak. Giovanni just dropped me off at the bus station. We said bye through the window, then he walked off. The bus pulled out, made a turn and drove off shortly after. I searched for him in the street. Right side left side right side left side, and right as the bus made a bend to go in the opposite direction , I saw him, tiny like an ant, his back to me. Marie had to go to the English academy to teach a class, so we said our goodbyes in the bookshop. I just passed by the academy on the bus and I searched for her too. Why do we do that? Try to get a last fleeting glimpse. Marie, as you all know, is a photographer, and today her lecture was about the conception and need for photography. Before photographs were paintings. Before that, theater and oral tradition. Why all this? Photography, as she puts it, is man’s attempt to immortalize life and thus avoid the inevitable, death. We all want to remember and be remembered. Our legacy to live on. Capture a fleeting ever moving moment and gain some semblance of control. I think goodbyes are like that too. That’s why our senses get heightened. Our hands ache for a handful too much of muscle and body. Our ears listen for the timbre in their voice. Our noses smell all—shampoo, detergent, herb and salt. We share a meal like it’s the last supper. And when the weight of their muscles and the timbre in their voice escapes us, we helplessly search for our friends on the side streets and, like a photograph, immortalize the inevitable. Stories of Syracusa Tuesday, November 16 2021 A group of Mormon elders just passed by me on the island. I almost wanted to whisper possessively “What are you doing here?” as if I was the only American that had “claim” to this paradise. I don’t want other Americans to mess it up.
Sidebar: 2 things.
Bold choice to come to one of the most Roman Catholic parts of the world. Everyone’s had their fair share of conquering on this island. The Arabs, the Greeks, the Spanish, the Romans. And now, apparently, the Mormons. Bless their hearts for trying. A few American girls were with them too. One of the girls looked to me, eager eyed and so earnestly smiled and mouthed “ciao”. I don’t know why but I went along with it. I smiled and then sort of slouched back into my chair as a mark of both comfort and familiarity. I relished in the fact that she mistook me for a local. It made me chuckle. Seeing myself in her. I now understood how everyone else felt when I gawked and gaped at them. Though, the neighbors and cafe patrons stare at me too, to be fair. Oh, the innocence and ignorance of it all. How we seek for understanding and connection. And try our hardest with the little we know. Stories of Syracusa Monday, November 15, 2021 This morning after a stroll through a flea market at Piazza Santa Lucia, where I was greeted with the kindness of merchants who gave me free fruit, I stopped by a cafe for some Succa de Pesca. Succa means juice and pesca is a seasonal fruit that’s kind of a like a cross between a big apricot and a peach.
In the table in front of me were four burly men and this little girl, about three. Their cologne collectively smelled like my uncle. One of the uncles was stirring his espresso, when it spilled out and dripped down the cup. The girl got a little mischievous glint in her eyes and cheekily extended her finger out to run her finger along the drip. The uncle play scared her and she broke into the most infectious laughter. They had a few back and forth’s of this game of espresso finger tag. They played the way me and my uncles played. The way I play with my little cousins. A kid’s first instinct. How do we grow to lose it? Sidebar: What would a guy think if on a date I extended my finger out and dipped it into his beer. Would he think that was play? Anyways, I digress. I think you get to know a lot about a person by the way they play. I think dates should be over a game, not over a glass of beer. I know that sounds weird but really I think it’d be much more insightful than talking in a pub about the time you hitchhiked across the east coast. What about a scavenger hunt through the city? Or dancing in the park? Or getting on the tube and getting off at a random stop and seeing where it takes us? We do it with our friends. Why not with prospective lovers too? Anyhow, I’m done with my juice. Talk soon. Stories of Syracusa Sunday, November 14, 2021 |
About this PageHello friends! Here's my page on all things writing. From my short stories to my poems on people, places, and life itself.
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