“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
I’m not sure if Tolstoy quite knew what he meant when he wrote that first catchy line. Nevertheless, I get his vibe, and I’m into unhappy family dynamics. It’s a portrait of familial chaos, but captured in the morning after it. It’s post-earthquake. It’s definitely about a year of wandering, meandering, and drift and becoming for Mona, for Dora, for Doris, and of course for me. How much writing and the writer are separated from each other? How much of the experiences and feelings and ideas and inspirations are separated from each other? I don’t know. What I know is that it’s not about this grand narrative or a magical big event that happens as the characters set out on a journey. The steps are very small. The realizations are subtle, but deep… but also the art of knowing how to exist and be in the in-between phases.
Mona says, “I would sell my soul for a real conversation.”
I’m finally arriving home to my apartment. I have to try, try, try to allow myself to see, see, see freshly. Not through image-driven story bites, not limiting myself to the allure of this and that. Mona just wants to have a real fucking conversation. So, she buys a mynah. She talks to it, hoping it will talk back, but the bird refuses to talk. But I can’t seem to find what happens with Mona. What does she want? Please tell me, Mona. I have no idea where I should take you. I just have these snapshots of moments, as if I live inside her mind. But I don’t know what to do with this collection of images, mental images.