i wander.

Elie Saab - Spring Summer 2014

pasta e fagioli & avocado toast



if someone tells you you’re beautiful, you tell them they are too. if someone says they love you, decide if they mean it before you say it in return. if a boy tells you he’d date you if you didn’t smoke, light a cigarette and walk away. if your mother screams at you because she’s had a bad day, close your eyes and leave her to her anger. if last nights lover doesn’t call you back, do not cry and blame yourself.



I hate how your mind thinks of something really creepy and you try to act all casual about it like “haha that would be creepy if a demon came up behind me and tried to breathe on me hahahahaha” then you go and turn every single light on and call your mom.


Orange in his Hand
I see two men sweatat the exitof the freeway.
One is brown and burntfrom the sun raysthe other is whitewith an American Flagstitched across his trucker hat.
They both wear dirty clothes.They both burn to holda little green.
One sells oranges, walking upand down the street. One holds a sign that reads,“I’m hungry, help me eat.”I feel for both of them,but I only admire one.
The one who handsoranges in bags to tired faces,who chases carsfor his change,who counts penniesas profitto keep his apartment.
The one whose wife wakesbefore sunrise to walkthrough Los Angeles streetsyelling “tamales, tamales”with a 4 year old daughter at her side.
The mother who crossed over4 years earlier so her daughterwouldn’t have to sell tamaleswith a baby at her side.
The father tells his sonnever to beg,but to work hard for the bread.So the son sells Cheetosat his high schooland gets called beanerfor not owning named brand clothes.A son who must bring dollarsbefore good gradesbecause rent is two weeks late.A son who will one day hold a gun to the headof a liquor store clerk,only to remember his father’s words.
Mijo, work hard for the bread.
Rent is two weeks late so the familybreaks tax laws to make jobsand they lifts roses to the skyhoping someone passing byis falling in love again,so the familytakes elotesto the neighborhood projectshoping the ninos are hungry.
The news says this family is hereto take my job, my seat in school, my country,but the only thing they’re taking is the riskof being handcuffed,broken and deportedin the name of familyin the name of lovein the name of trying everything to stay abovethe currentand that is whyI can’t help
But to admire the manwith an orange in his hand,a fireball of hunger in his palm.

This literally brought me to tears because the pain of their reality is so brutal. My mother and father are terribly smart people, who were raised in private french schools, with private cars and only the best in Egypt. But they came here and suffered. With their white skin, their many languages, their expensive education, they STILL had a hard time. Imagine everyone else. Imagine the hoods, the people of color, who have to break laws to make ends meet, laws that only work against them, systems made to cast them out and force them into poverty. My mother worked hard to feed us, but our pain is not their pain. This is something else entirely, a whole new level of hell we dismiss as their fault. It’s ours, for not doing shit to change it.

Astro Coffee - Kinfolk
I answer one of your letters, then lie in bed in apparent calm, but my heart beats through my entire body and is conscious only of you.

Mystic light by Guido Schulte