Sense Memory

Sense Memory is the use of the senses to re-create people, places, smells, tastes, songs, physical conditions, etc., in order to get in touch with a character's reality. For example, if what my character needs in a scene/play is to be loved by the other character, but on that day I am not naturally in touch with that need, I might sensorially create a person from my life that evokes in me the need to be loved. I would then go on stage with that need awakened in me, and hopefully the scene would work- meaning, it would be real. By these standards, a scene works and is real when the need in the actor is as real as the need in the character. It is one of the main tools of Method Acting, used for decades upon decades in the training of actors. The reason this works is because the brain can not differentiate between the experience and the memory of the experience. I studied at The Actors Studio, where Method Acting got its name, so even if I don't always use it, the technique lives in my body. If your heart is open, it only takes about three seconds for a memory to burst out and take over your whole being. Here are some memorable experiences in my life that I often re-create with the use of sense memory, or that have been enhanced because of my training in sense memory.

Smell:

I walk past a store that is being thoroughly cleaned, and there is a strong smell of chlorine. Immediately, I am transported back to my eleven years as a swimmer. The specificity is such that I can feel my wet bathing suit on my body and the blue slippery tiles beneath my feet. The smell of chlorine in my hair during those years was practically permanent, and my skin was always really dry. Competing was always agonizing for me. I only won a gold medal once. And the day I did, I remember feeling outside my body, like someone else was moving through me, because I couldn't possibly have been going so fast. I breathed only once, and when I got out of the pool I was shaking. I heard my name in the loudspeaker, "Larissa Dzegar- Gold Medal!" and I heard my whole family scream from the bleachers. They put me on those steps- it was the first time I ever stood on the tallest step in the middle, and I had to bend down so they could put the medal around my neck. When they were done recognizing us, I got off the step, knelt by the pool, dipped my medal in the water, and kissed the floor, inhaling a big strong whiff of chlorine and whispering, "Whoever you are, God, I know you exist."

Sight:

I'm walking around and someone walks past me who looks just like Him. The one who took my heart before I knew how to protect it. The one I don't think about anymore and don't look up on facebook for fear of his status saying, "Married". The one who taught me about love and then taught me even more about heartbreak. The one by which all others are compared. Him. I do a double-take, realize it's not him, but I am paralyzed on the sidewalk with grumpy new yorkers telling me to "move out of the fucking way", and all I can hear are my thoughts- the ones I didn't think I'd have anymore- Where did you go, my darling boy? Where did life take you? Where did that time of innocence and sweet love go? Do those teenagers kissing under the stars still exist in us? Did your heart grow colder, like mine, or are you still the boy who told me he was falling in love with me every day? How many other women have you loved? Am I, too, the one by which all others are compared? Does my memory creep up on you too, and take you back to a time when all we knew was the purity of our young love? When we thought we could be together forever? Does your heart still break a little, like mine, when the memory of me creeps up on you? Does that boy still belong to me, like he told me he would, no matter where life took us?

Eventually, the thoughts stop, I do move, and somehow my body just knows to walk to the ATM and get money because I'm going to need two things immediately: something fattening, and something overpriced.

Sound:

It's someone's birthday and I'm at a dance party. It's hot and sweaty and fun. And then someone decides it'll be funny to put on really cheesy 90's music. Lo and behold, "Everybody" by The Backstreet Boys goes on. Flashback to 7th grade. My friend Duna calls me one night and says, "Hey, I'm doing a dance for the Talent Show with Manu and Steph and Tiff. Wanna join us?" I say yes. I don't really know Manu or Tiff that well, and I'm not even that close to Duna, but I love the spotlight, and being in a talent show is exactly the kind of thing I am known to sign up for. Plus, I don't have that many friends. This could be good for my social life. We rehearse over a hundred hours. We buy matching outfits. We diet. We want to be hot for the show. We contemplate being bulimic for a while. We discard that idea. The day of the show comes. We are nervous as hell. This could be awesome, or it could be the end of our social lives. We go up with our kick-ass dance for "Everybody", and it's the most fun I've ever had in my life. Not only does the audience love us (and hey- a middle school audience is not easy to win over) but the five of us become best friends, referring to ourselves as the "BSG's" and creating a bond that helps all of us survive those brutal years of adolescence.

Taste:

It's my first semester in college and I am not so happy. Sometimes, I'm downright depressed. I'm 18 and an ocean away from my home. It's cold. I have to write papers on things I don't really understand. I am struggling to get cast in plays. I do not have a boyfriend and there are hardly any boys at Sarah Lawrence. The only boy I kind of liked is now dating my suite-mate, who is blonde and really skinny, which just makes me feel like shit. I smoke pot occasionally and it just makes things worse. I keep a bottle of tequila next to my bed. Things are just. not. good. But I have a friend. A dear, sweet, lovely friend. Maria. And she notices that something is not well with me. And one day (actually, she does it many times, but I remember the first time especially), she brings me chocolate milk. It's my favorite thing in the world. And when someone brings it to me, I am reminded of my mother, picking my brother and I up from school, bringing us a snack of chocolate milk and "bisnaguinhas". I feel loved and cared for. I feel less alone. The taste is so comforting, I drink the whole thing in one gulp. I hug my Maria. She becomes my friend for life, and the taste of chocolate milk makes itself my go-to comfort beverage forever.

Touch:

My paternal Grandmother, also called Maria, or Baba to me, died when I was 7. She was my idol and the most beautiful woman in the world. She let me put make-up on her and would always tell me I made her look more beautiful, even when I had just put lipstick on her eyebrows. She called me "Larinshka". I am named Larissa, in fact, because that was supposed to be her name, but her mother had such a difficult birth that she prayed to the virgin Mary for her child to be okay- and when my grandmother came out okay, she was named Maria in a gesture of gratitude. I loved her so dearly, and was always so sad that I got to spend such little time with her. When I graduate from college, my aunt flies in from L.A. and celebrates the occasion with me. She gives me a box. I open it carefully- it looks precious- and in it is one of Baba's most beautiful rings, containing her birth stone. I put it on my ring finger. It fits perfectly. I stare at my hand. It looks just like her hand. Long bony fingers, big fingernails, small wrists. The hand that held my own little one so many times to cross the street and go buy popsicles without my mother knowing. She is still with me, and I can feel her touch every time I wear the ring.

Masculinity vs. Femininity

"Be aggressive. Really strong. You know, tap into your masculinity."

If you're an actress or if you have ever played a sport, you've probably heard something like that and know what I'm talking about. As soon as I hear that, I get uncomfortable. Mostly, I get uncomfortable because it works. I channel in whatever socially constructed understandings of masculinity exist in me and I am suddenly more aggressive. My voice drops. My shoulders tense just slightly. My hips roll forward. But why, I ask myself, do I need to be told to be more masculine in order to come off as aggressive and strong? Clearly, if I can do it, then those qualities do not belong solely to men. Hm.

Yes, women can be aggressive and strong too. But not only are those qualities that are normally associated with men, they are of greater value when they are present in men. When we say of a woman, "She's really aggressive," we don't usually mean it in a completely positive way. We're not likely to get rewarded for punching someone- we'll probably get labeled as crazy if we do that. But an aggressive man is just being, well, manly.

Now, women have a lot of nice qualities associated with them too. Sensitive. Nurturing. Emotionally Open. Loving. But here's the thing: AGAIN, when those qualities are displayed in men, they are valued more. When we say, "He's so sensitive and nurturing," it's most likely a compliment. Whereas in a woman, very often, even qualities associated with femininity can be seen as a negative. For example, I read an article the other day where a working mom said something like, "If I dare to say I have to leave a meeting because my kid broke his arm, I get glares and eye-rolls. If a man says he has to leave a meeting early to watch his son's little league game, he's met with oh, how cute!" We usually get rewarded, actually, for "overcoming" our feminine traits- for leaving our kids at home and going to work, for detaching ourselves from commitment, for becoming immune to sex, and the list goes on. This does not apply, however, to more practical aspects of "being a woman"- it's still okay if we do all the cleaning and cooking and wear push-up bras, for example. A woman can be the CEO of a company now, but it's better if she does it in heels, never yells, and, when her husband volunteers to feed the kids one night, she rewards him by wearing a school-girl outfit the next time they have sex.

So when do we win?

I don't actually have a problem with aggression and physical strength being masculine traits and sensitivity and nurturing being feminine traits, I think that's pretty much in accordance to our human nature. The problem, for me, is that certain traits are valued more than others, especially in men, and we don't acknowledge that every human being has both masculine and feminine traits within them, in varying degrees. A woman who is a boxer but still wishes to be attractive to men shouldn't feel like she has to overcompensate for her aggression and physical strength by wearing loads of make-up and covering her bulky arms. On the same token, men shouldn't be given an award every time they do a house-hold chore or know the name of a flower.

It seems that there's a whole lot of focus on getting us in to the man's world. But how about valuing a woman's world? If house-cleaning paid as much as investment banking, men would learn the tricks of the trade quite quickly, I'm guessing. If you've never read Gloria Steinem's famous 1978 article, "If Men Could Menstruate", you should. I highly recommend it. In it, she says, "Whatever a 'superior' group has will be used to justify its superiority, and whatever an 'inferior' group has will be used to justify its plight."

So, ladies, here's my suggestion: How about we start saying, "Yes! How great that I get to feel something for the men I sleep with." and "It's amazing that I actually want to stay home and raise my kids! (And yes, I should get paid for it)." and "Oh, I don't want to start a bar fight, that's what makes me awesome."

Because maybe if we start to value some of our feminine traits, the rest of the world will eventually follow suit.

What do you say?

Image from "Porn for Women" http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3171/2884131572_92796377ed.jpg

The Hopeful Cool One

We've all heard, at some point, the famous (male) words: "Just don't expect too much of me," later echoed with, "What do you honestly expect from me?" Usually meaning, Don't develop feelings, don't start wanting a commitment, I'm warning you now so that I don't have to be held responsible for my actions later.

What we ought to respond is, "Well, you know that it's actually not possible for me to control what I feel and expect, so what you're actually asking from me is that I pretend that I don't feel anything for you or expect anything from you, even if I do, so that you don't feel bad about using me for sex and company."

But do we ever say that?

No.

Instead, we say, "Cool."

Because that's what we want to be. Cool. And you know what? It's fucking stupid. We know we're not cool at all. We play it up, act all detached, wait the obligatory four hours before answering a text, shrug when he asks if we mind if he goes to a party without us, pretend we're not the commitment-type, but inside- unless, and this is important to note, for there is an unless: we're in love with someone else, deeply heart-broken, or really jaded- we're not really cool with not developing feelings and not expecting anything from the men we date.

We all read or watched the movie "He's Just Not That Into You". We're too self-aware and too educated about men, at this point in Herstory, to fool ourselves about a guy's emotional availability. When our mothers were dating, they had to take a lot more risks. A guy could get away with a lot more. A girl could think, "Oh, he hasn't called me because he's visiting his Grandmother or, like, at war."

Nowadays, girlfriend, you know that if he didn't reply to your text within 45 minutes, he's probably not interested in more than your booty- people text during funerals now, no one is busy with something where they don't have access to their phones for over 45 minutes anymore. And we know that when a man says he doesn't want a relationship, we should take his word for it and, as Cassandra O'Keefe once said, "Run like the wind. You want to save something? Save a whale. Save the rainforest. Don't try to save a man."

So we have no excuse. And that's the most disturbing part. We, the most educated generation of women, are still choosing to lie to ourselves and play it "cool".

I can, of course, relate this to a recent event in my own dating life. I've been engaged in a text flirtation with a guy for about two weeks now, and he texts me extremely sporadically, and has already given me excuses like "I'm busy with work" and "I'm hanging out with friends", and I've already vowed to stop replying to his texts about 14 times, but every time he texts me I get super excited and wonder if he's finally going to ask me out. It's ridiculous! I want his attention simply because I don't have it. I've felt like I'm 12 and trying to get the most popular guy in middle school to notice me when he was already dating the popular blonde and only called me when he needed help with his homework (and by help I mean I would give him the answers to everything). I finally decided to do something about it today, and I texted him, "So you wanna meet up sometime or just text me for another 7 months?" To which he replied, "haha. I absolutely want to meet up with you. Tell me when and where." (You're probably thinking- as I was- oh, so he was interested all along! But not really. I mean, think about it, what else was he gonna say? Men don't tend to say "nah, I'll pass" when a woman asks them out. They usually figure that at the very least they'll get a boob.) We then proceeded to set a date. After the whole interaction had occurred, though, I sat thinking to myself, "So this guy has been kind of a jerk, I've been getting the wrong vibes all along, and my way of settling it was by asking him out? Golly Moses. Women are stupid."

Why do we keep doing this to ourselves, and can we stop?

As I write this, I think, I should text him and cancel the date so that I can end this blog post with my triumph over my stupid neediness and inspire other women. And, in my inability to do so, I am given the answer as to why we keep this up.

Hope.

I hope he won't be a jerk. I want to give him a chance, because the pay-off that could come from him actually being a great guy is worth the cost of a bad dating experience. I want to take the risk that maybe beyond his virtual actions, this guy might be really really nice, and we might like each other. Because at the end of the day, what I want most of all is to find someone to love who will love me in return, and that's really hard to find, so I gotta give some odd balls a chance, hope for a seemingly douchy guy to turn out rather sweet, take some risks, or I may miss my chance.

And you know what? I'm cool with that.

I accept comments on my new blog design too....

The World Cup

So, I don't really care about sports, but once every four years, I go crazy. I care deeply and passionately about the World Cup, as some of you have picked up on in light of my recent highly-emotional facebook updates. I learned at a very young age that, as a Brazilian, I must care about the World Cup, I must watch every game, I must cheer against Argentina, I must hate France, I must know every player's name, I must scream when Brazil scores, and I must cry when someone- anyone- scores (or almost scores) against Brazil.

It is because of the World Cup that the world knows where my country is.

Around the world people have said to me, "Oh, Brazil! The kings of soccer!" And I always reply, with a warm smile, "Yes, that's right. No one loves soccer more than Brazilians." And it's true. It's the country's sport. And if you go to Brazil, you better understand that Brazilians believe it is our sport. (Also- just a head's up- if you happen to think that some Argentine can be compared to any Brazilian, you better keep your mouth shut. Actually, you better not go to Brazil.)

After Brazil's somewhat unnerving game with North Korea today, I tried to talk to some American friends about the World Cup. Big mistake. They were like, "So what? It's just a sport." Well. Not a cool thing to say to a Brazilian. You see, soccer is not just a sport for Brazil. It's all we have. Other than big butts in thongs on the beach and our red meat, it's all people really know us for around the world. And it's the only thing we're all really proud of. There's dignity in being known as the champions of a sport that the world competes in. There's pride in knowing we are a legend. There's immeasurable joy in seeing our country making history happen.

Most of the time, I regret to admit, I'm not that proud to be Brazilian when I'm outside of Brazil. I have a couple of Brazil t-shirts, and I never wear them. I used to wear them when I first moved here, I thought it would be a good conversation starter. And it was- except the conversations were usually started by males and, at some point, they would say, "So is it true all Brazilians have a Brazilian wax?" or "Wow, you're Brazilian? That's so hot." Which, hard as it may be to believe, is not exactly what I wanted to hear.

One time, I got a job babysitting for an American woman and once she found out I was Brazilian she gave me a really evil stare, and then proceeded to tell me that a Brazilian had stolen her husband. That's the other thing we're known for. Stealing husbands. Great.

At one point I was complaining about all this to an American friend who had done quite a bit of traveling herself, and she said, "Well at least people don't think you're ignorant, rude, and bad in bed. Don't you think it's better that people assume you're sexy and good in bed?" I didn't quite know how to explain to her that no, it was not better. Our cages were shaped differently, perhaps, but they were cages all the same.

So I stopped saying I'm Brazilian. I didn't want the profile that came with it attached to me upon first meeting people. I didn't want them thinking "Easy", "Good in Bed", "Husband Stealer", "Super Waxed", etc. It took too much energy to try to re-educate people, and I certainly wasn't interested in pretending to be a boring nun so as to not be associated with the usual stereotypes. They just didn't have to know. Case closed.

But then there's soccer.

The World Cup rolls around and I proudly sport my Brazil shirts, bandanas, sunglasses, nail polish, flip flops, flags, and, most importantly, spirit. It's the one time, every four years, when I'm super proud to be Brazilian. When it doesn't matter what else people think of me or my country or the women in my country, I'm still part of a nation that has won five World Cups, the leading country in soccer, the legend of the game. I walk around knowing I am part of something important, something that makes people pay attention to our talents, not just our asses. For just a little while, the world looks at Brazil in awe. We are worth their time. We deserve their respect.

It is the most watched sporting event in the world, bigger than the Superbowl, the U.S. Open, or the Olympics. It's impossible not to be proud of your country when they win a game. The world is watching, and we know it.

The first world cup I remember watching is the 1994 one held in the U.S., which Brazil won. I was 9 years old, and I remember very little of it, but what I remember most is how the whole city stopped to watch every game. There was no one on the streets. People were excused from work. You couldn't even get a taxi cab. Every single Brazilian was gathered in front of a TV screen, crying if Brazil lost, crying even harder if Brazil won.

So yeah, I take the World Cup seriously. I've seen its power to unite and bring light to a nation. I'm gonna watch every game I can. I'm gonna cheer for my country and against the countries that threaten our title (or even just the ones we're notorious for not liking...). I'm gonna write about it on facebook- all. the. time. I'm gonna wear my Brazil t-shirt everywhere and paint my nails green and say "Woo Hoo!" when people yell out "Yeah Brazil!" at me on the street. I'm gonna let the world know I'm Brazilian, because this is a time when I'm proud of what my country has achieved. I'm proud to be part of this country that draws millions of people together to watch our legendary team play. I'm proud to represent excellence and achievement.

I'm proud of Brazil.

I'm going to scream every time we score. Listen, and you'll hear screams around the world.

Leaving

leave —Synonyms
1, 2. abandon, forsake, desert; relinquish. 9. forbear, renounce.10.

ignore, forget. 11. bequeath, will; devise, transmit.

(www.dictionary.com)

I thought today about the day I left Brazil to move to the U.S. for college. I had only packed two suitcases. I didn't want a lot of things. I was ready to leave. I was eager for change. I had been in a relationship for a year that had worn me out completely and had resulted in some strains with friends and family members when it ended badly on account of an infidelity on my part. I was tired of Brazil's sexism, danger, and lack of support for the arts. I had been in the same school for 14 years and I had never lived anywhere else. I wanted to get away, I wanted new friends, I wanted to act, I wanted my own life. With all this in mind, I thought it would be easy to leave.

When my dad said, "Ok, time to go to the airport," I ran to my room to get my bags. And then, as I looked at the room I had grown up in, with its purple pillows and white clouds painted on the blue ceiling, an understanding of what I was about to lose started to dawn on me. I took a deep breath and turned away from my room, not quite willing to get sad, but then saw the living room, with the big blue couch that my brother, my cousins, and I had sat on to watch movies thousands of times, always arguing for half an hour before deciding which film would win that day. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the guest room, where my brother and I slept (we each had our own rooms, but we liked to stay together at night, so we slept in the guest room because it had two beds and less mosquitos- I know, it's the cutest thing in the world). I couldn't fight the sadness away anymore, and I stood there for a few minutes taking it all in, and then my dad called me and said we had to go, so I whispered, "Good Bye" to my home, ran down the stairs and out the front door.

I sat in the car with my parents and my brother, my aunt and cousins in the car behind us, watching my city go by a little at a time, struggling with these feelings I hadn't expected to have.

The next thing I knew I was getting ready to board and was saying good bye to my family. I looked at my darling cousins, Ga and Toca, whom I had spent my life with, and as I hugged them I felt a part of myself being left behind. Then, I looked at my brother. My best friend and my favorite person in the world. What would Ferret do without her Waldo? We were two pieces that made a whole, we were Bu and Zu, Ferret and Waldo, La and Sa. I fell apart, and so did he. As we hugged and cried, and our whole family around us cried as well, we knew we were losing a part of our hearts. I touched my nose to his nose and said, "I love you little one". I turned around, my parents and I boarded, and I looked back only once, to wave good-bye and see them there, standing and waving, watching me go.

Snap. I felt my roots being cut from beneath my feet. I'd have to grow new roots now.

I cried the whole plane ride to New York. I had left my home and my family in a different continent. I wouldn't be there for their birthdays anymore, I wouldn't see them on the weekends for movies and milk-shakes, I wouldn't be near them when I was sick, I wouldn't hear my brother's voice before I went to bed every night, I wouldn't be able to share in their every-day lives, and, on a lighter note- but not that much lighter- I wouldn't be watching the World Cup in Brazil with my family and friends anymore.

My life was about to change, which was what I had thought I wanted.

Leaving Brazil was one of the hardest things I ever did. There was a loneliness that came with leaving that stayed with me ever since. Like a plant that has been moved from the earth on which it first grew, I have been able to grow new roots, but I have never forgotten where I came from and what my life was like then.

It's hard to leave home. It's hard to leave people. It's hard to leave our old selves. We are left a little bit more alone every time- making space for the new, but still knowing that in that space there used to something or someone else. I left that day knowing I would next return as a visitor in a place that held old memories but where I no longer created new ones.

Auditioning: The Other Side

I am producing a play right now, and got to experience auditions from the other side of the table.

Golly Moses.

It was quite different, to say the least, and I learned so much about auditioning, starting from the very moment one submits their headshot/resume, that I felt I had to write about it here, for the sake of other actors who may benefit from my brief experience.

First of all, I was really excited about holding my own auditions. It was my chance to create an experience that was humane and beneficial for the actresses and made them feel valued for their time, talent, and work. The ways to do that, I felt, were to:

a) send them the material they would be auditioning for in advance, giving them a chance to prepare it, and not make them do monologues or read something without knowing its context.

b) have a nice monitor that greets each actress and offers them a bottle of water.

c) stand up and shake their hands when they come into the audition room.

d) have the sides on colorful paper, and the audition form on nice cover paper, so that everyone sees that effort was put into this audition, and that it's a fun environment.

e) be present with each actress as she is auditioning, making eye contact and listening, rather than reading their resume's while they're performing or looking away if they look at me.

I think we succeeded in making the auditions a respectful and valuable experience for everyone, but I have to say our efforts were not always met with the same respect and value. Here are some things I learned about auditioning:

1. When submitting, always write a personal cover letter. Just like we, actors, don't like feeling like a picture in a pile, casting directors don't like feeling like an address in a mass email.

2. If you're a white girl in your 20's, you can count on competing with at least 100 other girls who look just like you. Your headshot better be amazing, your credits have to be awesome, and your cover letter has to be unique.

3. If you've been personally invited to audition, the very least you can do is reply!

4. Never be late. Seems like a given, but even late by just one minute can determine whether you'll get cast.

5. Never cancel an audition. You just wasted everyone's time, and someone else's opportunity to audition. If you're not 100% sure you can make the audition and be part of a show, don't even submit. It's just disrespectful.

6. If you're given sides ahead of time, you should be prepared. I understand now what is meant when they say "Make strong choices." It means know where you're coming from and what you want and who every person you refer to is. Basic acting stuff, actually, but about half the actors don't do it. The ones who get cast are the ones who prepare for an audition as though it were a performance- not that they have to be memorized, but they know what they're showing.

7. If you don't know what a word is, look it up before the audition.

8. If there are other noises or distractions in the space, acknowledge them, don't get distracted or ignore them.

9. Take your time. Don't abruptly start, take a breath.

10. Ask if you can look at someone if that's what you want to do.

11. It's totally okay to ask questions or to say you're not comfortable doing something.

12. Use the space if you want to.

13. For all the time I spend thinking about what to wear to an audition, it really doesn't matter. The only things that matter are if you're dressed up like a prostitute when you're auditioning for a biblical character, or if you're wearing something tight around your neck.

14. Be excited to be auditioning, or don't audition at all.

15. Say thank you before leaving the room, it just shows that you're a nice person. And believe it or not, there aren't that many nice people out there!

So those are my two cents on auditioning, for what it's worth- which for me, was worth a lot. =)

Simpler Times

I went to Target in Brooklyn today, which, if you know me, is kind of unusual. What happened was I was walking down the street and I saw a girl with a really awesome yoga-mat-bag. So I went up to her and asked her where she got it, and she told me she got it at Target. I was like,There's a Target in New York??? Indeed, there is. And since I have been in search for the perfect yoga-mat-bag, I took a day trip to Brooklyn.

The trip there was kind of a disaster. First, I decided to take the N from Canal Street, so I went to Canal Street, which is kind of like walking into an arm-pit. Then I discovered that the N, that I had just walked 15 blocks to get to, was running local, and I could have just gotten it right in front of my building. Okay. Patience is a virtue. It's an adventure in search of a yoga-mat-bag, after all. So I got on the N that was making all the local stops and, by the looks of it, was being pushed manually along the tracks- I mean, it couldn't have been going any slower. Let's not forget that I was wearing shorts and a tank top, because it's hot enough to die outside, but inside the train it was Siberia, and I was soon trembling while sticking to the blue plastic seat that didn't get the memo that it was summer. Awesome. But then, I finally got to Atlantic-Pacific stop, one of the most horrible subway stations in New York- second only to Times Square, hopped off the ice-train-pulled-by-a-turtle, and was soon standing inside Target.

In my grouchy New York mood, I wasn't expecting to find what was waiting for me at that Target. As I walked past the giant Dorito bags and $5.00 jeans, an unexpected rush of memories bubbled up all around me. I saw myself at 7, running around with my brother looking for Twix bars and horror books on one of our many family vacations in the U.S. Let me explain: My parents liked to pick a country for us to go to over the summer, and then they'd rent a car, and we'd drive around rather aimlessly for a month, seeing the side of things "regular tourists didn't see". Several times, it was the United States, and we'd sleep at Holiday Inn's and stop by every Target and Wal-mart in sight, shopping for the good old American treats, be it in Oklahoma or Texas or Illinois.

I hadn't been inside a Target in a long time, but as I walked around today, it was instantly familiar. The long summers driving around with my family, usually in a mini-van, eating gas-station hot-dogs, looking out into the long roads, which always all looked the same to me, waiting to find the next Target so we could stop and run around looking for candy.

It can be really overwhelming to walk in somewhere that's filled with memories we left behind years ago and can't get back anymore, and soon enough I found myself trying on an outfit I would never buy just so I could sit in the dressing room for a few minutes and take it all in.

As I sat there in an orange polyester shirt and green shorts with sunflowers on them, I realized that what I was experiencing was a feeling of longing. Longing for a time when the four of us spent months on end together in a car, fighting and singing and eating until we couldn't take each other anymore. A time when my brother was simultaneously my best friend and the most annoying person in the world. A time when all I could think of was buying Diane Hoh's next horror book and then getting to a hotel where I could watch Nickelodeon.

Like so many childhood longings, this one was no different: I was longing for a time when things were simpler. I finally got out of the dressing room- and out of those scary clothes- and faced the store with all its ghosts, hoping I might find pieces of my childhood waiting for me around the corner.

It was weird- I was tall enough to reach the things I had to climb on my brother to try to get to before. And movies cost $20 more than they used to (they were also DVD's rather than VCR's...) Target was still Target, though. It was just a store.

What I started to realize was that Little Larissa and Simpler Times weren't hiding behind the plastic wine glasses, they were inside me. Target had just woken them up for me, reminded me of a few details I had forgotten, but their home was in me. It struck me that innocence and knowledge can live within us without canceling each other out, for our 7-year-old selves did not cease to exist when we got older. We added layers, but we still have the core. It seems rather obvious, but I, at least, tend to forget that my Inner Child didn't stay behind in the places where the memories were built- she's still inside me, and who I am now was built from her, not despite her.

They didn't have the yoga-mat-bags, by the way. So I bought a fairy costume for my cousin's daughter (maybe I was buying it for Little Larissa, but let's say I was buying it for my cousin's daughter). As I walked out of Target, I noticed there was a Chuck E. Cheese in the same building. Another day, maybe. Enough memories for one day, I thought, as I smiled, got back into the ice-train, and returned to my life as a 24-year-old in hectic grown-up Manhattan, feeling just a little bit closer to Simpler Times.

Little Larissa