Eva Luna

Uncategorized — Mel @ 4:21 am

My name is Eva, which means “life,” according to a book of names my mother consulted. I was born in the back room of a shadowy house, and grew up amidst ancient furniture, books in Latin, and human mummies, but none of those things made me melancholy, because I came into the world with a breath of the jungle in my memory. My father, an Indian with yellow eyes, came from the place where the hundred rivers meet; he smelled of lush growing things and he never looked directly at the sky, because he had grown up beneath a canopy of trees, and light seemed indecent to him. Consuelo, my mother, spent her childhood in an enchanted region where for centuries adventurers have searched for the city of pure gold the conquistadors saw when they peered into the abyss of their own ambitions. She was marked forever by that landscape, and in some way she managed to pass that sign on to me. – Isabel Allende

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Writing that moves

An excerpt from, The Malady of the Century, by Jon Leon.

_______ I miss Korea. After the Maritime, The Mark, The Conrad, the Americano and forever ago in Italy, I still don’t know. Watching you pack your things and unpack your prada. It felt lifeless. The infinity pool. The great artists. Everywhere we went was the last time we would go there. Everything we ate was gourmet. Every time we kissed it was cinema. It was above ground. Who couldn’t see the desert in my eyes. Was it Rosecliff manor or Marble house where you spent a summer wasting? Does it matter now where we sunbathed or who we bathed with. I told you I would make something beautiful for you, but all I made was your bed. Sexy, that’s your thing, you told me after i came back from the paradise where I was captive. Paradise is such inequity. All I ever wanted was to park a white Corvette on West 24th Street and send precious birds through the elevators and dark corners of your storied office. To continue to take espresso in front of the Richard Princes. Drunk, so many times, in an empty bar in the financial district. Everything was empty in the financial district. it was like we owned the capital – alone there. When Kasmir was the bible of Soho house, and all of the taxi radios played pure souther soul, and even in the most powerful annals of the international avant-garde there were plush pristine feelings. So we cruised the waterfronts of Southern Brooklyn, at the magic hour, and our song was all about Phoenix, and how I would just get back to the East and throw those Great Gatsby parties like everybody always said I should. Just get back, Jon was the resounding cue. Get back so we can summer in Newport and winter in Palm Beach. Get back so we can launch our grand magazine, The New York review of Culture, and be the first magazine about L’Arpege and Buddakan and Federick Seidel. Just shit we made up. Like everything. We were all greed then. Mostly for each other and and for our futures. Was it Umbria? or Florence? Where did you even go? I returned the book by Forster. Because really, what was I to do with your distinction. But it is true that, for every time I had the courage to look at you, for a moment the visible world faded away.

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