Flash on 1 Subject

14 thoughts on “Flash on 1 Subject”

1. The favorite book I ever read is Giovanni’s room. In the book, David recounts his time in Paris where he is torn between his love of Giovanni and Hella. I never really fallen in love with anyone so I never had to make such decisions yet I think this isn’t really necessary to really engage with the themes of the book. The choice by Baldwin to leave David completely alone without Giovanni nor Hella reveals a deeper commentary about what it means to love . The context behind this book might make readers in the direction of thinking that the reason why David will not allow himself to be Giovanni is because of the hidden life many queer men lived during that time. It still certainly plays a role in his vehemence to break their relationship but then he should have been happy with Hella. The central struggle and what eventually leads to tragedy is David’s inability to be vulnerable to someone’s love & vice versa. His persistent obsession to maintain his unwavering manhood will never allow him to be close to anyone. Forever condemning him to fast loves and loose friendships.James Baldwin has such a powerful intuition for choosing words and ideas that feels like someone is breaking apart your heart and laying out all of your most primal feelings. There were so many parts of David I saw in myself that were terrifying but informative. Its one of the reasons why I love tragedy so much , it leaves you with the mistakes of others with the hope one can learn as to not end up like the people in the story

2. I don’t look like her in any way, shape, or form. I don’t have her red curls or ruby shoes but for some reason, I have always been entranced by her fantasy dream of Oz. Maybe it’s because every time I watched this movie I was with family for Thanksgiving or Christmas. My grandma had all those old family channels that played romantic comedies and 80s movies. I even had The Wizard of Oz on my first-generation iPad and rewatched it on every road trip. I rented so many movies, but this one was bought and I could hold onto and replay it at any moment of boredom or need of comfort. My biggest fear is witches because of this movie. I gained an appreciation of white 20th-century white movies because of this movie. I for some reason love this movie.

3. I am twenty-two years old, just two years younger than my mom when she gave birth to me. I am in my last year of college, doing everything in my power to get the degree I have been working towards for what seems like forever. I go to work every day, an unpaid internship that I’m grateful for because nowhere else accepted me. Even here, I wasn’t the first choice- I was only offered the position after their first pick dropped out. I was the second pick. Who am I to complain? I’m just happy I got a job- even if I don’t get paid for the thirty hours I work every week.

   I came here with my boyfriend. At first, he was only here to help me move in. But being away from home for the first time alone was scary. He was my comfort. It was great to have a piece of home with me. Plus, he cooks for me and helps me clean our apartment so I can focus on work and school. He’s such a dad- he always makes sure I eat and never thinks I’ve had enough. I know it isn’t necessarily his job, but it’s nice to have someone take care of me. It’s allowed us to get closer- you learn a lot about someone by waking up to them every day. How do they like their pillows? What kind of milk do they drink? Do they fold their laundry right after it’s cleaned? I’m an introvert. I am perfectly content staying in the house. He pushes me to go out and actually enjoy the city- something I would have made excuses for if I was alone. We have seen so many places together and he never says no to my impulsive ideas.

   I am twenty-two years old when I see those two blue lines pop up on the pregnancy test I just bought from the CVS across the street from my fourth-floor apartment. Part of me knew I was pregnant- there is a certain unshakable feeling you get along with the inability to eat or drink anything and being so sick you cannot leave the couch. I know I can do this- but how will I be treated? What will my parents say? Will I be a good mom? Am I ready for this? Certainly not-but is anyone ever actually ready? This timing is so off. I’m supposed to go to college, then get married and have a child if I choose that route. Can I still have a career? I am so shocked I can’t even tell Izzy. I throw the test at him. He can’t believe it either. I don’t know what is to come, but I know we will get through it together as one.

4. Do I have an addiction? Easy, no. Or, that’s what I thought until the summer of 2023 when I was visiting a family friend. They were not coffee people. While I found that strange because, in my house, we wake up with a cup of coffee in our hands. Back at this friend’s house, I didn’t think too much of it. I was well-rested and didn’t need my cup of coffee right away. Fast forward to 3 pm that day, and I had the worst headache of my life. Up to this point, I had not made the connection between my missing cup of coffee and my headache. I took Ibuprofen for my headache, but I was also having the worst mood shifts of my life. I don’t know how I survived the rest of that day, but that night I figured it out in my sleep. No coffee. I have drunk a cup of coffee every morning since I was 15 years old. I’m dependent on coffee. The next morning, I woke up and drove to Dunkin; I ordered a medium regular coffee with almond milk.

5. The waiter sets down a giant basket of food on the table between us. My roommate and I look up at each other, expressions of something between awe and horror on our faces, our pizza slices frozen in mid air. We had forgotten how large the portions were at the Greek restaurant we had chosen for lunch. Accepting our fate, we both put down our pizza and took up our forks like soldiers readying their swords for battle. Faces resolute, we plunged into the massive basket of kimchi fries together.
   The first bite immediately erased any traces of apprehension from our minds. Every time I tell someone about the legendary kimchi fries of Filo’s Greek Taverna in downtown Northampton, I’m usually met with a look of bemused confusion. While I understand the initial uncertainty – kimchi and french fries are not a popular combination – I still hold the opinion that everyone should try them at some point in their lives. The french fries on their own are nothing special, just regular straight-cut fried potatoes, but add on a mysterious sauce that I can only guess to be a mixture of gochujang paste and mayonnaise, a generous heap of kimchi and some shredded cheddar and freshly chopped green onions sprinkled on top, and the “side” dish becomes a mouth-watering concoction of savory and spicy flavors. The meal originally comes with some meat – pulled pork, I think – but we vegetarian-ize it, and I honestly can’t imagine that it even needs the extra topping; it’s unbeatable as is. The fries soak in the kimchi juices and gochujang sauce, becoming pull-apart soft, and the cheese melts and mixes wonderfully into the middle of the colorful chaos. The perfect combination is when you stab a fry sufficiently drenched in kimchi juice, cover it in the sauce and a bit of cheese, and stab one of the crunchy, spicy fermented pieces of cabbage. The crispness of the pickled vegetables perfectly complements the semi-soggy fries, so not only are the flavors incredible, but the textures are perfect as well. I’m convinced they could make big money off of this concept – it’s one of those dishes that you end up craving at the most random times for no apparent reason.
   20 minutes later, to the absolute horror of my roommate and I, the basket sat completely empty, save for some stray strands of cheese and green onions. I look up at her, expression grim, still clutching my fork. We had planned to take half home for a second meal later tonight.
   “Did we really…” she asked, glancing warily at the empty dish.
   “Don’t think too hard about it.”

6. A few weeks ago, my sister said to me that she realized that she has spent her life being shaped by men’s views of her. That a caricature of herself is the one who dated Branson, Santiago, Jacob, Ruben. I told her that I understand, but not because I understand. Just because I watch a lot of movies.

   “Save me, Sabrina Fair,” a newly shaven, white haired Harrison Ford says to Julia Ormond, no longer ugly after being changed to the point of obscurity (she took off her glasses), “you’re the only one who can.” She agrees to perform such impromptu heroics and the two kiss in the road, cars be damned. Sabrina (1995) is a remake of Sabrina (1954) and has the required 50’s aesthetics turned 90’s nostalgia, – that important haze of romanticism. In Sabrina (1954), Audrey Hepburn, distressed for a reason I can’t recall (probably love), writes a suicide note and turns on all of the cars in her father’s garage in an attempt to kill herself. They took this scene out of the remake. In both versions, sometimes suicidal, sometimes beautiful, sometimes gutwrenchingly ugly (glasses) Sabrina is fallen in love with by a handsome, emotional man and is then given the burdens of their lives. Humphrey Bogart doesn’t outwardly sign away his life rights like Ford but the idea remains – this woman is to be their salvation. In Casablanca, Humphrey Bogart releases his lover from this burden, letting her go like a father seeing off his daughter, but ends the film beginning a beautiful friendship with the prefect of police, a new protector. In the modern classic Poetic Justice, Tupac Shakur, playing the handsome but roguish protagonist Lucky, declares his place as a romantic lead, echoing Bogat with the wonderful line (spoken to an even more wonderful Janet Jackson), “frankly, my dear, I don’t give a fuck.” Talking about Poetic Justice, Medium writer Prince says, “Lucky made me realize that we as men lack so much emotional intelligence until a woman comes along.”

7. We have not had salami slices in Chapin dining hall since October 25, 2023. I seem to be the only person concerned by this. I live in Chapin, and pass through the dining hall every day. Prior to October 25, salami slices were a weekly or biweekly staple at the food bar, rotated out with pepperoni or some plant-based substitute on a regular basis. When it was a salami day, my friends and I would notify each other over text. I can search “SALAMI ALERT” in my phone and immediately generate a record of exactly when we were given salami. October 25, September 20, September 18, May 22, May 8, April 19, March 8. The Chapin salami alert has outlasted entire relationships, and now it is no more. Silent since October 25. I beg on the dining feedback form, pester my connections in Smith dining to no avail. Is my golden age of salami over?

8. Someone rearranged the living room so a big blue chair sits pressed up in the corner where a pile of junk used to live. Complete with tables on each side to put food and drinks on and in the direct path of the high noon sun, this chair is my new favorite lunch spot. When my late mornings allow it, I fix myself up a bowl of something colorful and delicious and curl up like a cat, so delighted in my existence. Today I’ve got red lentil soup in a blue bowl and with the sunlight hitting it I swear I can see the whole universe in its orangey lumps.
   In the other room, “Happy Ash Wednesday!” and then “Isn’t it Thursday?” and then, “oh” and the conversation returns to lentils and rice and how the sun is out today and isn’ t it lovely.
   It is so lovely and the sun is my favorite color and it highlights how hard Winter has been on my ashy skin. I think about how Spring is on the periphery, kind of, and how nothing lasts forever and how impossible it is to ingrain that into everything I do.

9. I used to joke that I spent half my year eating in dining halls. My favorite time of year was when the camp dining hall closed and we got to take some of the frozen food home and eat it over the winter. It would sometimes feel like summertime in mid-January. I also really loved my mom’s cooking, even when it was questionably edible. The joy came from the smells. I’ve always had a strong nose and a game my little brother and I used to play was guessing what food was being cooked based on smell alone. If it smelled like the steam of boiling water, we were having pasta. If you could smell the sizzle of oil and light scent of flour it was bacon and pancakes. If you could smell grains cooking and veggies steaming it was rice pilaf, steamed broccoli, and cooked chicken. I used to joke that I spent half my year eating in dining halls, now it’s probably ninety percent of my year. I still miss my mom’s cooking but mostly the smells.

10. I could write every single fact I know about her, and it is more than a few. Born on December 18th, 2001 at 11:30 AM in Highland Park California to Maggie and Patrick O’Connell, both of which I have met. That just isn’t the most important part. What’s important is she saved my life. At the age of 14, I only wanted one thing, to be liked. I did everything to seem ‘cool’, I wore what I saw others wear if I could fit into it, I talked how others talked, I lied about things I did and things I liked to be liked. Stephany, my best friend in middle school, was always a little cooler than me. She dated boys starting in elementary school, everyone knew who she was, she was thin and beautiful and her laugh filled a room. In her bedroom, during a late summer night sleepover, she asked if I had heard of Billie Eilish, she pronounced it incorrectly like most people did before she won her Grammys, she pronounced it Eleash, I didn’t know then like I know now it’s Eilish like an eyelash but an eyelish. At the time, I had no clue who this girl was.
    “Duh, of course, I know who she is! I love all her music.” My lies slipped out so easily.
    The following day I went home and streamed all of her music every song, I was afraid Stephany would ask me about it again, ask me my favorite song or what I thought of a specific song. She never did. I had to do my research and be prepared. I fell in love like I had never heard a more beautiful voice in my entire life. Everyone had a favorite singer it seemed like I never did until that moment.
    In a sense, I sort of grew up alongside her. It is insane to think someone so young, so similar to my age, is a nine-time Grammy winner. She was there when I was going through a breakup, she was there when I couldn’t get out of bed some days, and she was there when I wanted to jump and dance around my room, most importantly she was there when I thought I wanted my world to end.

11. A deaf family. A hearing daughter, who sings. CODA is a beautiful work of art, my favorite film. Representation matters. So few movies represent the disabled community, yet this one did. Masterfully. Everyone wants to see themselves in the characters depicted on the big screen. Watching CODA is the closest I have ever been to feeling this way. Though I am not deaf, I saw disabled characters put in the spotlight like never before. I am a disabled member of an able-bodied family. Ruby is a hearing daughter in a deaf family. The dynamic between disabled and the non-disabled is tricky, but CODA encapsulated the beauty that can arise from these challenges.
    I remember vividly watching the movie with my family, showing it to my grandparents. Bundled under blankets on the couch, I soaked in every word, sign, song. Every single scene perfectly crafted to bring awareness to the notoriously underrepresented. By the end, there are always tears. There’s no doubt the OSCAR was deserved.

12. Reading the syllabus for my first year seminar inspired such joy and excitement for me, feelings which I would never typically associate with reading up on my school work. But this time was different. This time I learned I would have an excuse to go to one of my favorite places in this whole expansive world, the theater.
    Theater as a form of expression has always captured my attention. No, not just my attention, my very being. Seeing a live show is such a fundamentally sensory experience that I can’t help but be transported beyond my mind into an expansive new world. The sheer number of distinct art forms that converge together on the stage astonishes me every time. This amalgamation of so many people’s passions that I get to see on the stage in front of me encapsulates my very being for the two or so hours that I am permitted to enter the pocket world that is theater.
    For two hours the entire world is on the stage in front of me, creating moments that ingrain themselves into my brain, as if they were pre written into the script of my life and fated to, in that moment, give me an experience so unforgettable that I can still swim back and relive them days, months, years later. I will never forget the golden light and transcendent experience of witnessing “Epic III” in “Hadestown”, of feeling spring return full force, soft breeze on my skin, adoration in my heart as the mythological figure of Orpheus showed gods and men alike not how the world was, but how it could be. I find it impossible to escape the moment at the end of act one of “Cabaret”, the harmonious voices sounding so delightful to my ears, yet inspiring so much fear in my soul, the way the lights in that theater brightened and remained on, no blackout, even after the intermission began, keeping my soul trapped in the world of “Cabaret”, merging realities and forcing me to mull on how my modern world reflected that of the pre WWII scene I just witnessed on stage. I remember being in the front row of “Six” the musical seeing every detail of the women on stage, making eye contact with the six wives of Henry VIII as the rich, powerful sound of their modern rock songs filled my very being, allowing me to converse with the story in front of me without any words needing to be exchanged.
    Beyond specific moments I remember the audience. I remember those who were there with me for these theatrical experiences. The collective shock at the ending of “Topdog/Underdog”, the silence that enveloped the already quiet audience, dread and sorrow linking hundreds of strangers in that moment as we witnessed the tragedy on the stage in front of us. The young boy in the row to my right when I saw “Shucked”, who I was certain did not understand all the jokes on the stage in front of him, but who was still joining the audience in the shared jovial spirit. The unstoppable smile that formed on my and my mom’s faces as we watched “Some Like it Hot”, drawn in and enamored by the volume of life and passion poured onto the stage through the actors’ joyous dancing and singing.
    Live theater is a topic of interest of mine that will never lose its grasp on my heart. Too many moments, songs, scenes, sights, and sounds have worked their way into the core fabric of my very being for me to lose interest in paying witness to the tales on the stage in front of me. My first year seminar requires me to see one live play of my choosing, so I type this in anticipation knowing that soon more memories of theater will encompass my life for two very special hours.

13. When I log into my Goodreads account, the first thing I always look for is a new post from someone I follow. The second is checking on my reading goal. The first action is the chief function of the website. The second, its greatest flaw. Reading is an enlightening pastime, whether that’s consuming a renowned tome or the most derivative a genre has to offer. It tells an individual about themselves. The spectrum of color their mind refracts out of the beam of an author’s words is totally unique, housed in a magical pocket of the mind. It’s impossible to relate to an outside world unaltered, and yet, that’s what we must do with our imaginations. In the olden days of yore, this was physical discussion and creative exploration and articles etc etc, only accessible if you were considered worthy of access. Now, anyone can share a glimpse of their inner world, and likewise, can access the distilled infinity of human thought, via the Internet. Typing up a review on Goodreads or Storygraph or even Amazon Reviews will always seem to me a wonderful means of sharing the spirit of discussion, and the growth of that discussion in recent years makes me hopeful for the future of reading. However, there is always a downside. Reading as a hobby is also a potential market. In this economy that idealizes constant growth, a concept that isn’t only impossible, but deeply selfish, it is only natural that book buying is now a hobby separate from reading. In the past, only the extremely wealthy could afford to buy books and not read them. While there is an inherent upside (everyone should have access to the literature they love, and should be able to buy a copy of those books, not just the uber wealthy), it is nevertheless overshadowed by the effect of people buying books simply because the marketing was intense enough, only to realize that it wasn’t what that specific person was actually looking for, and now they have a piece of media displayed on their shelf that they didn’t even like, or chucked into an ever expanding bargain bin. This is even less excusable when we consider that this is the only time in history where one can access a book without having a physical copy, and, specifically in the US, when we are in a time of libraries, beacons of accessibility, being underfunded and threatened by mobs that tout their censorship as a means of morality, and not what it really is, which is an attempt to spread their own ignorance which can’t be spread as effectively with this access to diverse critical thought and art. I am only so critical because I recognize the problem within myself. I have books I haven’t read on my shelf, which I bought because the covers were eye-catchingly crafted or because someone on the internet said that it was the next “Avatar: The Last Airbender” or that the author was the next Neil Gaiman. But the problem remains, and it remains solvable. Libraries should be protected, authors should be paid more and given more time to develop their craft, readers should buy physical copies of the books they know they like and splurge every once in a while on a book they only think they’ll like. That seems so simple, but it’s because I’ve left out the hard part of the equation. Book influencers. Those pillars of reviews that grow discussion, that can only make a livelihood out of marketing books to the masses. What to do with them in this solution? The solution I’ve come up with is to have them pose the same role as literary critics, to market not books but their own opinions. Some of them already do that. But most I’ve seen are mostly book collectors. Just search “book haul” on Youtube. There’s no end to the content to be profited off of. That’s a leak in the boat I don’t think can be plugged, if it’s even moral to do so.

14. I dip the puri into the tin bowl of molten sunshine. Airy fried dough and mango pulp melt together on my tongue, the ripped pieces of oxygen-in-the-middle flatbread mingling with the smooth coating of cold cardamom-spiced liquid. The mango pulp is from a can, but Ammamma mixed it with milk and cardamom in one of her white ceramic serving dishes. Orange drips over the rim in a few places, sliding like tear drops to interrupt the blue floral embellishments on the outsides of the dish.
    Ammamma slides another puri onto my plate, hot and fresh out of the oil of her deep iron pot. Instinctively, I reach to touch it; as soon as my fingers brush its gold surface, I pull them back, seared by summer.
    Every year when I was younger, my family made the fifteen hour drive from Chicago to Dallas so my sister and I could spend July at our grandparents’ house. With our grandmother, we twisted wire and beads into ming trees, helped pick beans out of her garden, and watched adaptations of Jane Austen novels. Our favorite thing that she made for lunch was puri and mango pulp, sweet and fresh to break up the blistering Texas heat.
    Sometimes, still, we sit at the counter in her kitchen, lined up on the stools like little kids. Our arms are long enough now that we can reach the dish of mango pulp ourselves, to ladle seconds into our bowls, but we still hold out our plates for right-off-the-stove puri. Nothing makes me feel like a young child again quite like that counter and that meal.