In 2016, I wrote a poem named Alalia. Something about the word, its meaning, the way it sounded on my tongue, as well as in my head, stuck with me and struck me like lightning. At this point of my life, I was just a few months out of a short yet quickly toxic relationship. One that made me lose sight of my strength, my power, my voice - something I rarely to almost never struggle with. 

After the disintegration of romantic euphoria and bliss, I reflected on what it felt like in this otherworldly, unusual version of myself. During my research on words that could metaphorically and/or literally define what I felt like in this previous state, I landed on “alalia”. I dissected the word and what followed felt like an invention of a world or state of mind in survival mode. Through this piece, I was reincarnating a couple as told by the perspective of one over the other - the one who could no longer speak, but could only share an internal perspective of such love through its former glory to its fading light, while struggling with being carried by the very person who wants to be both electrified and responsible for the respective partner's electricity. What we may find euphoric and blissful in the hands of another might actually be a twisted suffocation, and now that it has been years back on the other side, I will always choose air. 

When thinking on Alalia, I saw a world that felt altogether ethereal, untouched, and apocalyptic, and I couldn’t help but see these two individuals and their environment in a tangible form. I wanted to craft this sizzling, bubbling romantic disintegration on film. And with that, comes my first directed piece, Alalia, brought to life through the beauty of Anna Telfer and Andrew Matarazzo as well as an amazing skeleton crew who made this with me during the pandemic. 

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