Craft essay

Craft essay

In the different I and eye stories I handled the border between truth by simply airing my own truth and someone else’s truth in different manners. In the “I” story, the straight forward recollections and the written reenactment were put forward in a blatant and straight forward manner with very little to need to interrupt. Then I rewrote truth in a manner that disguised anyone and everyone that might have been involved in these stories. For “Spaghetti Western” the story of the girl was written in the form of a novel with light dips into romance and a touch of romance novel style pictures and simple descriptions, with an educated reader in mind. The story was told from above as a narrative or a voice over inside my head playing while watching the pictures going through my thoughts like television.

Pertaining to creative non-fiction the feature I find the most interesting, second to the actual form of writing itself is the ability to put out a true story with facts. A big factor I feel is important, the addition of the actual feeling that was taking place in the moment of the story. Creative non-fiction includes the backgrounds and previously involved emotions and circumstances. It’s important in the telling of a story that includes emotion to get people through their own personal attitudes, feelings and opinions. It’s almost a bit persuasive in its projection of the author or artist expelling the words.  

True or previously known facts or knowledge and familiarity can be through emotion and creative nonfiction. With an observation from a different perspective of the same author observed factors of an interesting nature, subtle explanations during the course of describing someone’s action can let the reader experience the relationships in the writing.

Whether it is a human or an object, having known or lived with them or it comes with many perverse insights in describing that person or object. These are built in contributing factors to the unraveling of the story. Simply writing a story straight through without looking like a fool who just repeats stories that could be misconstrued without the creative non-fiction narrative. This narrative is the writing version of not having a fourth wall. The abilities to press and press again with tightly placed words directly into the consciousness of the reader. I also love the ability to create sequence as it is remembered and pertains to the through line or thought as opposed to the factual order of things. Sometimes a key element took place far away and at a different time yet resurfaces during another point in life.

Evolving Identity  

As a writer I don’t feel as if I can break it down yet. I have not the authority or the right to call myself a writer. So far I have written and may make a true writer. I believe I’m headed towards fiction, non-fiction and creative non-fiction. Perhaps articles and travel as well. What I would really like to end up writing will be my direct thoughts and attitudes. I would like to place my voice into words on paper with all the additional written words I need to support my evidence without being interrupted. I hope to write about the earth and the people. I hope to show the things that are obvious to me in society and societal circumstance. I hope to philosophize and contribute and bridge the gap between those that understand and those that don’t. Creative non-fiction is a very powerful way to reach the people if done with the proper intentions in mind.

My voice is strong for this period of my writing and the sentence, speed, and structure are growing and becoming stronger. Coming at writing from different levels of direction have also improved my writing life. Editing has become something I enjoy. I value truth, honesty, tight wording, clarity and being interesting to the reader. I like exposure, sharing, informing, dropping gems and having a rhythmatic tone to the written word.

My craft is developing around my current abilities of getting the thoughts from my mind to the paper but the styles and readings we have done have been bringing more dimension to what I am writing. Regardless I've what I am conveying and how I have done it in the past there is always room to learn from others and experts and examples of the very best writers.

I couldn’t proclaim that I write in the vein of Mr. Earnest Hemmingway. The truth others live but need another to bring to the light in order to enjoy. Hunter Thompson, Brett Easton Ellis, Henry Miller. Charles Bukowski and occasionally I can go Quentin Tartino or even biography style. I don’t feel they are direct influences of the way I write but a little piece of all of them makes me see what I must take from within myself and how deep or honest I must go. Regardless of the topics it’s the sheer blatant writing as if only your best friend were hearing it.

My Audience 

People that would enjoy my work have a broad perspective and are the clear minded citizens of today that have a definitive and concise view of life and society that is not walled in by their personal belief or religious perspectives. At this time I think if I put out enough stories from different types of experiences I can begin to reach all types of people. I feel once my writing and my mind become more connected I will be able to reach a larger crowd and possibly a more upwardly mobile or sophisticated audience, but probably not yet.

My audience is for all ages and social styles. Diverse income levels from the educated the street wise, to the fashion people of the world’s big cities to the suburban person who fantasies or enjoys realty television, the rock and roll crowd and the hip hop crowd as well. I feel if I get them in front of me with writing like I do with speaking then they can be mine. Amongst this list would also be people who love the truth and in-depth nuances of the world. I am personally attracted to so many things that I hope people can find themselves in me.

Changes in investment in various aspects ethics

No changes in investment, I am completely invested from the start, just needed to see more doors open. It’s been your guidance that’s opened up what I simply didn’t know existed at all through ignorance or lack of knowledge. I have grown but it’s the same as being a blind person that can see for the first time. Then going from “I” to “Eye” opened me up yet again, but I didn’t know it was there to find before your course.

For the “I” essay I simply told the truths with as much straight forward honesty and a touch of prose. I did go against what I believe would be fair by including the actual truth of others. I should not release this to the public under its current form. I should allow the friends I mentioned to read the subject and then sign permission slips. But for a lesson to self I did what I believe should be done and exposed myself as a person trying to reach others through my own truth.

Ethically speaking The “eyes” were straight up so forward that they would be wrong to publish except for the fact that they are name free and could be disguised and proclaimed as actual non-fiction in an emergency.(But that’s dishonest as well). But still with one or two more edits I could come up with a story that I could put out to the public without back-lash or the type of back-lash that could cause serious life problems. It wasn’t my favorite story by me because it brings back such ill thoughts but the final writing “4 eye” was a favorite as far as getting it the hell out of my system.

I believe I will soon use the details that you forced out of me to write truer things then before with a more adult outlook. I wrote the first assignment deliberately in a cold tone of voice. I was trying to get around the personal while still being extremely honest, yet hidden behind a cold voice. I opened it up for assignment two and got a warmer response to go with the warmer tone of voice. I thought I had found my writing style already.

Then we turned around and did “eye” number one. Stepping back and being able to describe things in a more observational and in some case’s more beautifully. Stepping away and seeing the wonderful story behind even a sad story. Knowing the background was Italy and the love that was there in the story that was so common for everyone. Be able to bask in describing the girl and making her real again.

Having the research and experience to write a story that takes place in an old world that’s been the home of thousands of romantic writings and then being able to add the internet and modern problems to this non-fiction Facebook Romeo and Juliet. It was like a film out of Italy in my mind that I could share with everyone if they would only read it and feel as if they were there with the characters. Is this story this gift one that will make others happy to have received it?

In assignment four I just dumped out the story of a crazy weekend and really didn’t get much further then the two hour car drive at the beginning of the weekend. It was dark and heavy and I was glad I ran out of time but still had enough content to turn in to you. To go further I will need to know how detailed it will be and how exhausting it will be to write in a form I feel is acceptable to put out to the public without sounding like some crazy guy telling you a story about the weekend. It needs a truly deep honest narrative added in so we can see the feelings and fear behind what appears to be reckless abandon, and not what it is. Fearful lost souls.

As far as artful use of strategy I feel as if this has come with me from my performance life. I have many new tricks to read by others and learn and attempt or experiment with. Ultimately it seems to be something I unintentional developed naturally with my own personal style. I  feel I can stop a sentence cause a thought pause and then give the answer as if it were verbal language and not written. I like what I do in that area and in my hopes of actually becoming a great known writer I hope that the strategic way I unfold my thoughts will stay with me and become something that critics and readers will fall in love with.

Edited Project #3 Draft 2 due 11/29

Revised draft "EYE"  #2

                                                         "Spaghetti Western Love"

                                                Formally General Italy & Captain America

Her long vanilla colored blond hair had sun shining off of it. Her thin hands looked older then her age, her face was delightful and young by day, drawn and old by night after a wine bottle. Her dress was soft, floating on her thin frame; the white bright sweater was perfect for the weather of six in the morning. Smiling large and shaking a tiny bit from the excitement of the possibilities ahead. The high heels clicked on the airport tiles lifting her to 5 feet 5.Three inch heels. Her teeth looked like she had done drugs or had an eating disorder in the semi-distant past. Her purse was expensive but not for her as it was bought at a high end fashion house with her employee discount.

When she spoke to the counter person for the busses back to Milan she sounded sweet in one sentence, callous in the next. Apologizing and fretting about choosing the bus as travel mode instead of the train. She was worried that it wouldn’t be perfect. She doesn’t understand, nothing is perfect and trying for perfection leads to great flaws and problems. She smelled woman like, so feminine and little crunching into the man whose arm she held to. She was thirty three with nineteen year old quality’s, believing love is more important than jobs, food, and water.

She loved her American; found him on Facebook three years earlier, two years earlier she spent two evenings with him in New York. The whole thing sounded idiotic out loud, she kept some details to herself. After the trip ended she would have a pregnancy scare and that would compound the reality of the internet. She imaged telling her friends of her new love and husband who she meant on Facebook from America and got pregnant during their second meeting. She would appear to be a scammer trying to get to the USA by any means necessary. She wanted him and a baby with him, but not with this horrible story attached. She would not abort either. She already had many years earlier causing her “great emotional pain“she said, to the few people she told. This topic alone drove her slightly mad.

After he left there was confusion in her belly and back. She was holistic so she was wrapped in plastic wrap with ointments added. She prayed to Buddha. She also had to make a trip to the hospital of normal medication. The American was insensitive, he wanted her to take a pregnancy test right away, and he didn’t understand that she felt she should wait till her fashion house job ended forty five days from that time. She didn’t want to cry at work if she were with child. How could he be so cruel?

Leading her American threw Milan she stopped for espresso and croissant, she called this breakfast. After getting him back to her sister’s apartment she pushed him onto the bed in the hot still Italian summer air. Dress pulled over her head and heels on; she climbed atop the bed pulling cloths from him, him pulling bra and panties from her. Two and a half years on Skype and now flesh to flesh. Her skin was soft, her breasts cute, small but perfect. Shoulders were dainty and hips weren’t wide but still giving the shapely figure of a slim woman. She slid down him for an hour of hot summer, deprived sex. Sweat was everywhere like it rained warm water into the bed. He passed out from the flight, the sex, the heat. She went to her father’s for a short term loan until her check arrived.

Four or five times over the course of the week, she would explain how she will end the friendship with the best friend in Tuscany. This friend ruined her hard work to make this vacation the perfect experience. The ex –best friend and husband had stayed many times at her apartment with their baby when visiting Milan. She would go to her sister’s home for the week, every month for a year she did this for them. But this trip they would not accommodate the situation for her! Her sister hated them anyway. This friend would ruin what was to be the perfect trip. This caused the need for the short term loan.

The first evening she had a friend with an English speaking boyfriend and a car come to get them. They drove Milan, walked cobble stone trendy streets, stood in front of the Castle, and threw up their middle fingers with the statue that does the same across the street from Milan’s government building. Walking through squares and drinking champagne from the region. “You are so different tonight” the friend said in Italian. The American made her different and the surging feelings and compulsions to complain and be jaded and negative had subsided for awhile. She was very tipsy that evening.

The second night she brought the American to her friend the Brazilian English speaking divorcees home.  The Brazilian was an ex-model and she had her friend the South African ex-model with her. The American and the Brazilian smoked marijuana the Brazilian and the Vanilla haired girl drank wine and the South African and the American drank water. While driving to pizza threw Milan it was the perfect lighting the perfect weather the perfect speed the perfect music, the girls danced and drove even the American sang and danced a little. Everyone felt perfect; the night guided itself and our travelers. Then back at the Brazilians’, the South African left the Brazilian and the American smoked more and she drank more wine, she was drunk and sluggish. Showering the American with attention and dancing like a stripper. When he felt uncomfortable and reached out to calm her, she mistook this as a sexual move and said” nooo not in my girlfriends’ home”.  For the three block walk he held her with one arm as she moved her feet in the air, simulating sober person walking. As they walked past the hooker, “Amore” she said “I don’t like feeling like this”.

She passed out like a drunken girl in any country on earth. The American was up all night. Stressing and smoking even though he had quit. He had to clean up a fallen ashtray from under the bed, he had to clean up cat shit from the kitchen floor, and he watched the hookers down below from the balcony unable to sleep. He set the alarm on his cell phone that was charging in her laptop but of no phone use in Italy. The American fell asleep at daylight and woke up at eight am to his alarm. He knew she would melt down if he didn’t get her to get them to the train station in time. The train they had reservations for that would be taking them to Legendary Venice.

She was happy on the train to Venice with her amore. The disgusting sweaty, girthy, pig of a man next to her didn’t even bother her. She smiled at the American and was blissfully in love, she wanted espresso and Marlboro lights badly. She didn’t even remember the previous night past the point where they had returned to the Brazilians. She remembered a beautiful night with her friends and her amore. The American seemed a little different.

( 20 pasts for the price of 1) --->Edited "I" project 2 edited

                                                     20 pasts for the price of 1

I’m sick of the past, the god damn past. Every story I have takes place in the past. It’s happened. Even right now the previous sentence is in the past. There are so many books, movies,you-tube videos, and shows about shows, and reality and shows about reality. But few dreams, for they are over run by the massive population.

Everyone is predictable or am I meeting the ninety-five percent of the simple and repetitive population believing their wheeling or dealing or believing they know what their speaking about. I've studied my past situations, realizing that I didn’t fully understand them then. I was stupid and didn’t get it. I was trying hard but it’s too many words to explain this second in this particular mind frame during this paragraph. We will bring this up randomly later in this book.

I might have been crazy. The people who once represented my heroes and models have fallen. Hero’s that had fallen far lower than I ever would.

Dominic found me in Stella a second hand store owned by Kathy named for her grandmother. Id arrived back in NYC from New Jersey trying to get more coke and drinking beer at ten AM. He was with Ester at the time and I really loved her and she loved me, as friends. She was Dom’s girl so sidekicks and girlfriends of the boss end up spending a lot of brother and sister type time together. I would become Dominic’s sidekick as I sobered up in the weeks that would follow this encounter. He was an awesome speaker, thinker and charismatic man, good role model.

Closer to now, but far in the past I would drop him off at Washington Square Park. Tuesday nights he would vacation in Central park. He looked like shit and nobody was his friend any longer. After returning from three years in Australia, I was sitting in Dominic’s apartment waiting for the delivery guy whose number was still working. I did have to explain I was in Australia and help them remember me but they actually don’t care too much. I came home for Cousin Jonathon’s wedding. Aunt Bette needed some weed and since I was back from a foreign country for more than twenty four hours, naturally ask Josh.  I was searching for a pot pipe in Dom's room. I found a burnt spoon and a needle and a pot pipe, I smoked. I’d talk to him later.

The wedding was a good time in a fire hall. It also happened to be, what would have been my third wedding anniversary. They wanted me to pull the garter belt off the bride’s sister; I wasn’t feeling that at all. As much as I am a tough guy I do not want to pull a garter on this day. It was also my grandparents wedding anniversary.

I live with them. Now I live with her, Grandpa Dave died months ago on his ninety-fifth birthday. The light in his room was on; I was totally annoyed at the nurse’s, grandma, even mom who was visiting. “Jesus, I have to do every fucking thing around here”? I found him in his bed; he looked the same but drawn and extra still. He was dead, I wasn’t surprised, and I was weirdly calm. It was befitting I found him after mom arrived two days earlier. The craziest part was the fact the family was scheduled to arrive for his ninety fifth birthday party! We quickly converted to a funeral. It was the Friday night or Saturday morning within twenty for hours of his ninety five year.

I literally almost passed out standing in the heat putting the last shovels of dirt on Grandpa Dave’s coffin. Jewish people cannot leave until the coffin is covered. I wore my all black suit, Grandpa Dave ware my grey wool pencil cut style suit purchased second hand many years ago, as Dave aged he shrunk out of every other suit in the house. I tried to bury him in my MARC suit.

If the MARC suit went to the grave I’d be free from ghosts of my past. Sally was Lisa’s best friend. Lisa was my Australian wife.  I knew her ten month’s total, married for maybe three months. Sally worked at a clothing Public Relations showroom and loaned clothing and shoes out to television shows for presenters, actors, and guests to wear on the air or in print ads.

I was on a very low budget music video show named Ground Zero. I did little badly acted ads for the liquor company and then for Sony. I borrowed the suit for the Sony sketches before Lisa left and finished with it after she’d gone. I was too fucked up, bent up, angry and hurt, mad and vengeful and fearful to even consider going near Lisa’s friends. I held the suit to a later date which slowly became straight out theft. I still have it. Grandpa Dave was too small. It’s is a beautiful suit. I should have returned it; I should have done something about the suit and maybe something about the marriage to Lisa as well.

Lisa liked me, I liked her back. She cocktail waitressed at Shine, she never ever stopped dancing. Once I got to know her she said “I love the job because I can dance the entire time”. Her skin was soft white with pretty light colored freckles. Hair was brown, shiny and long. Eyes blue. Her back had an arch that caused her bum to be shapelier and her chest appear to push forward with beautiful full breasts. She was quick to smile, quickly to laugh. Her voice sounded exactly like Drew Barrymore’s, her Australian accent never shone through. She always wore a slip and cowboy boots.

Earlier that year but after a year and a half of being completely sober, Ethan showed up sweaty and twisted for my birthday with the gift of cocaine. Needless to say I lost my waiter jobs due to this and was again given a lifestyle change via Ethan. He hooked me up with a job with him in the marijuana distribution industry. A great job; boss was lenient and strung out on heroin. Customers loved us. I smoked with the customers at the deliveries, their treat or tip. I purchased tons of cloths and treats; at this job cocaine doesn’t constitute job loss.

Don’t get it wrong, it was New York City. When Ethan and I met we were working as waiters at Bowery Bar. Once during a staff meeting the owner asked us to “please do fewer drugs during your shift!” “Don’t order drugs from the pay phone because it’s bugged,” and “don’t sell drugs to the other owner because he is doing too many”.

Ethan and I started heading separate ways; we weren’t really seeing things eye to eye. It wasn’t differing moral issues and beliefs or separate political views. I was snorting blow and he started shooting heroin. I switched to hanging with Stuart because Dominic was getting married and Stuart and I were left without a proper party friend. Bringing Ethan around wasn’t really working because the dope was making him paranoid and withdrawn.

Stu and Dom got me jobs working at Shine in many capacities; Shine was the hottest club in NYC. I’d do comedy sets or host, I ran the velvet rope for those allowed in and almost rejected Von Winter the Rolling Stone editor , thankfully, a member of the band “Fun loving Criminals” saved the situation. Other nights they paid me to sit in a booth and drink free whisky. I made one hundred a night for drinking free whisky, Dominic and Stuart made two hundred a night to sit and drink free whisky. Also, I made substances find their way from the people holding them to the people wanting them. We spent quite a bit of time in the club basement; unbeknown to the common customer this was actuality the VIP room of VIP rooms. Until I was blamed for smashing the staff’s stereo and we were banned from the basement. Stuart did it, but I’m not a rat. I actually found out from someone who ratted Stu to me. He eventually confessed.

The website breakdown updated w/Links due 12/6

The review of the Website “Big Ugly Review” Rhetorical Analysis of Publication Venues 

Josh Spear

Big Ugly Review

The editor and site are hand and hand …“Elizabeth Bernstein moves their description of the accepted essays in a quirky; we have it all in depth tone. The essays go from being light and politically correct to stronger political fueled stories of people of all back rounds making it in this world. The site also includes music and writing on serious topics such as war. Theoretically this web-site does it all. As listed the site includes

-fiction, nonfiction, poetry, photo-essay, short films and original music based on the theme of the current issue's

The topics mentioned were an eclectic mix from outer space from the dog’s perspective all the way to the horror of Iraq. The accepted works are geared for political correctness and the situations that different people of different ethnic back rounds experience. The tones on both the fiction and non-fiction were very heavy and somewhat traditional in their novel like writing. Also a lot of sad love connection stories and loneness.

·          

    The Visitor  (Fiction) by Daniel Alarcón

The visitor was very sad and slow with hard overtones over the loss of a wife and mother. Done from a very sad father mourn and unable to leave his war torn home with his children for fear of leaving his dead wife all told in a manner of letter the info unfold slowly and sadly like a song on a classical string instrument.

·          

  Work in Progress  (Fiction) by Kristin Kearns

The discomfort casually described of joy and sadness at becoming pregnant from a man married to another woman. A story that felt as if a friend were sharing a personal and bad situation

·          

Who Killed Michael Vaughn?  Breakdown Fly  (Music)

·          -Assorted music by Sick of Sarah & Emily Zuzik, Who Killed Michael Vaughn? By Adam Zwig

The selections were all very honest, heavy depression, alternative folk…..I could see sensitive listeners truly enjoying the selections although it is not for me

·         Film

The film was a Rap video about Iraq  by Ron Najor. I thought I had wondered on the music section but it was actually a strong politically charged Rap about an American born Iraq man, who shares all his feelings on this topic through rap. It includes photos and vivid news clips of war footage.

The poetry, the music video, the photo essay, was all presented in the manner of people that must be strong and overcome the reality of their lives. It’s predominantly woman who are showing strength. It was motivational and insightful and a great place for people seeking inspiration from others with similar Esperance’s to share.

The two major writings are both segmented with light spaced out areas that have conversation to help transition from one moment to the next. Both stories are heavy and the main charters are out of place or the place they are has changed and left them out of place. The poetry is of the same state of mind.

It centers on their past dealing with different forms of racism or lack of humane treatment.All stories had a journalistic edge to them as well as being narrative. They are slightly scholarly or even pseudo scholarly. They do have artistry for the person who likes a lot of heavy metaphors and people whom write of cheating and sadness.

Short Story: Up to 5,000 words

Flash Fiction: Up to 2,000 words

Creative Nonfiction: Up to 5,000 words

Poetry: Poems of any length and form.

Photo-Essay: A series of up to ten photographs with captions of any length. (Note that photos must have captions - that's the "essay" part of the photo-essay. Please no photos without captions.)

Music: Send us your original song in any genre. Send as an mp3 attachment, direct us to your song on the web, or mail us a CD. Please include the lyrics.
Film: Submit films of five minutes or less. Send us your DVD to the address above or direct us to your film on the web.

A non-paying market site

Reading Dates (On hy the site seems to have stopped in May 2010)

Assignment 4 brainstorming slash most of draft 1

empty but discussed

Blog description

Gleaming black gloss with lights sparkling and glissing. It has Steve McQueen,James Dean and Sinatra, Warhol and Mohammad Ali and all the LA gangsters souls within it. It goes with hot rods and trucks and four by fours and Harley's. Its polarised and clarifies your sights and insights.It goes with leather or a hoody and even a suit. Its got a warning.

Do not wear these if you are not charismatic.

Project 3 draft 1

Her hair was long and vanilla colored blond with sun shining off of it. Her hands looked older then her age and her face was delightful and young by day and drawn and old by night after a wine bottle. Her dress was soft and floated on her thin frame and the white bright sweater was perfect for the weather of six in the morning. She was smiling so large and shaking a tiny bit from the excitement of the possibilities ahead. Her heals clicked on the airport tiles and helped her rise to 5 feet 5.They were three inch heels. Her teeth looked like she had done drugs or had an eating disorder somewhere in the semi-distant past. Her purse was expensive but not for her as it was bought at a high end fashion house with her employee discount.

When she spoke to the counter person for the busses back to Milan she sounded sweet in one sentence and callous in the next. She apologized and fretted about choosing the bus as travel mode instead of the train. She was worried that it wouldn’t be perfect. She doesn’t understand that nothing is perfect and trying to be perfect leads to great flaws and problems. She smelled so woman like, and she was so feminine and little crunching into the man who’s arm she held to. She was thirty three but had the quality’s of a nineteen year old who still felt love is more important than jobs, food, and water.

She loved her American; she found him on Facebook three years earlier and spent two evenings with him in New York a year or two previous to this second moment with him. She knew how stupid the whole thing sounded out loud so she kept some details to herself. After the trip ended she would have a pregnancy scare and that would compound the reality of the internet. She imaged telling her friends of her new love and husband who she meant on Facebook from America and that she got pregnant during their second meeting, but their first quality meeting. She would appear to be a scammer trying to get to the USA by any means necessary. She wanted him and a baby with him, but not with this horrible story attached. But she would not abort either. She had done this many years earlier and it caused her great pain emotionally she would say to the few people she told about it. This topic alone drove her slightly mad.

Weeks after he had left there was much confusion in her belly and back. She was holistic so she was wrapped in plastic wrap with ointments added. She prayed to Buddha. She also had to make a trip to the hospital of normal medication. The American was insensitive to her needs,he wanted her to take a pregnancy test right away, he didn’t understand that she felt she should wait till her fashion house job ended forty five days from that time. She didn’t want to cry at work if she were with child. How could he be so cruel?

As she led her American threw Milan she stopped for espresso and a croissant, she called this breakfast. After finally getting him back to her sister’s apartment she pushed him onto the bed in the hot still Italian summer air. Pulling her dress above her head and leaving her heels on, she climbed atop the bed pulling his cloths from him as he pulled away her bra and panties. Two and a half years on Skype and now they were finally flesh to flesh. Her skin was soft and her breasts were cute and small but perfect. Her shoulders were dainty and her hips weren’t wide but still with the figure of a slim woman. She slid herself down him until they had an hour of hot summer, deprived and anticipated sex. Sweat was everywhere it was like it rained warm water into the bed. He passed out from the flight and the sex and the heat as she headed out to meet her father for a short term loan until her check arrived.

She would explain four or five times over the course of the week how she will end the friendship with the best friend in Tuscany who has ruined her hard work and plans to make this vacation with this foreign lover the perfect experience. The ex –best friend and her husband had many times over stayed her apartment with their baby when visiting Milan. Then she would go to her sister’s home for the week, she did this every month for a year. But on this trip they could not accommodate the situation for her and her sister hated them anyway. This friend would ruin what was to be the perfect trip. This is why she needed the loan from her father.

The first evening she had a friend with a car and a boyfriend that spoke English came to get them.They drove around Milan and walked through cobble stone trendy streets and stood in front of the Castle and threw up their middle fingers along with the statue that does the same across the street from Milan’s government building. Walked through the squares and drank the champagne from the region. “You are so different tonight” the friend said in Italian. The American made her different and the surging feelings and compulsions to complain and be jaded and negative had subsided for awhile.

She was tipsy that evening and it was the night after this that led to the next step. She brought the American to her friend the Brazilian English speaking divorcees home.  The Brazilian was an ex-model and she had her friend the South African ex-model with her. The American and the Brazilian smoked marijuana the Brazilian and the Vanilla haired girl drank wine and the South African and the American drank water.

While driving to pizza it was the perfect lighting the perfect weather the perfect speed the perfect music, the girls danced and drove even the American sang and danced a little. Everyone felt perfect and the night guided itself and our travelers. Back at the Brazilians’, the South African left the Brazilian and the American smoked more and She drank more wine, she was now drunk and sluggish. She showered the American with attention and danced like a stripper. When he felt uncomfortable and reached out to calm her down, she mistook this as a sexual move and said” nooo not in my girlfriends’ home”.  For the three block walk he held her with one arm as she moved her feet in the air, simulating sober person walking. As they walked past the hooker, “Amore” she said “I don’t like feeling like this”.

She passed out like a drunken girl in any country on earth. The American was up all night. Stressing out and smoking even though he had quit. He had to clean up a fallen ashtray from under the bed and he had to clean up cat shit from the kitchen floor and he watched the hookers down below from the balcony unable to sleep. He set the alarm on his cell phone that was charging in her laptop but of no phone use in Italy. The American fell asleep at daylight and woke up at eight am to his alarm. He knew she would melt down to nothing if he didn’t get her to get them to the train station in time. The train they had reservations for that would be taking them to Legendary Venice.

She was happy on the train with her amore. The disgusting sweaty and girthy pig of a man next to her didn’t even bother her. She smiled at the American and was blissfully in love, she wanted espresso and Marlboro lights badly. She didn’t even remember the previous night past the point where they returned to the Brazilians. She remembered a beautiful night with her friends and her amore. She did know something was off because the American seemed a little different.

The landscape of Italy was like that of California and Texas at first as the train left the station and entered the rural areas. Horses, corn, mountains, dry brown grasses. The lake was different though. The lake you could see from the train was a frosty glowing white blue. It was more refreshing to look at then most water is to drink.