Whoaaa. Those overalls are perfect. And so are her red Hans Christian Anderson shoes that are kind of pointy and witchy. So is her severely dip dyed blonde hair and round glasses. Was this look agonizingly studied or just like, completely thrown together or what? Either way, I must now own a pair of slim cut overalls. But I might run the risk of looking like a short, korean peasant from the 90′s.
I enjoy leaving an empty glass on the kitchen counter. I like the whiteness of the counter, the emptiness of the glass. The two go together like the color of an eye and the eye that does not see the color.
It comforts me that the empty glass is there, however empty. It is a promise that later, when thirsty, it will be filled with water. I just need to know there is a vessel, to travel to another vessel, that fills as it empties. I like this connection and think of it often.
Every time I read the word “rattan” in a sentence I think of tattered rags or a completely tan rat.
It’s a Saturday morning and I’m off to buy my pooch a pair of ugg boots since we had a snowfall last night.
You think I’m kidding, but I’m NOT.
Brazil. One day.
The girl with the two glass lungs had a divided life. The life separate from the lungs which was her flesh and the life within the chambers of her body that worked like a machine. When air entered her nose or mouth, it swirled down into the small, crystal chambers, and she could feel the weather in there, distributing the air to make her blood go. Sometimes, entering a department store, especially during Christmas, the music boxes would release their covers and sing, as if an invisible hand had released them and she would stand for awhile listening to the boxes open up like small revolving flowers, with their wet mirrors flashing into the store. It was always as if her body betrayed her, sending out signals she could no longer control. Once, during an opera, she could feel her rib cage vibrate with the shuddering notes. Music was dangerous. She realized then that her insides were much more fragile than her outside body. A small flesh wound was nothing. If her crystal lungs would shatter then surely she would stop breathing and die. They would have to cut her open to find her secret, the delicate glass that kept her alive, its small economy of air.
I guess I could tell you what I’ve been up to but I’m afraid it’s not terribly exciting. I’ve started a new diet and while that sounds completely trite, it is making me feel amazing and surprisingly in control of my life. Control of my body = Control of my life. Let’s just lay me down on that couch already. Maybe I’m a closet anorexic, but that’s highly unlikely since I love food too damn much. The smell of it, the taste of it, and lately the preparation of it, with anticipation making busy my hands. The control thing is a bit exhilarating. A little too much fun, which sent up worry flags in my head. It is good to know that I must eat exactly X amount of mozzarella with Spring Greens at 5 pm, and a smattering of almonds for snacks at 10 and 2. And when I do these small little tasks at the right time, I feel a tiny spark of accomplishment. It makes tackling the children’s story I’ve started seem more likely, rather than a mountain of less likely. Or figuring out what I’d like to do with the rest of my life, or balancing my budget for the month or dreading the constant 8 – 5 schedule and subway commute. That I’d like to escape. And it’s hard to stay continuously inspired, to always be ON, in the face of such dreariness. It’s a battle, a war. Sometimes, I just want to STOP and dim myself like a lightbulb. Even lightbulbs turn themselves off at night. So, this new year I’ve decided to allow myself to renew and to stop beating myself up when I don’t meet some kind of creative expectation.
This year is about reNEWal, about doing what I’m doing and to keep doing it and to stop when I need to and not feel bad about it. I know this doesn’t sound like some kind of promise, like wearing eye cream and sleeping 9 hours and giving up carbs, but to me, this is the definition of resolution.
This kind of wind-chapped look is very appealing to me. It’s raw, pale-browed and romantic in a kind of heathered moors, tufted and rolling hills kind of way. I can imagine salted winds and clouds, wet shoelaces, cold stones. It’s equally Nordic and Bronte-esque. You would imagine Catherine Earnshaw had this complexion, the mark of a free spirit as she roamed a rough country, haunting castle spires.
photo: Marthe Wiggers photographed by David K. Shields for BLACK #18
I wish it could be Christmas every day.
Merry Christmas, everyone…!
“That’s all a shadow is—and though you might be prejudiced against the dark, you ought to remember that that’s where stars live, and the moon and raccoons and owls and fireflies and mushrooms and cats and enchantments and a rather lot of good, necessary things. Thieving, too, and conspiracies, sneaking, secrets, and desire so strong you might faint dead away with the punch of it. But your light side isn’t a perfectly pretty picture, either, I promise you. You couldn’t dream without the dark. You couldn’t rest. You couldn’t even meet a lover on a balcony by moonlight. And what would the world be worth without that? You need your dark side, because without it, you’re half gone.”
— Catherynne M. Valente
I am working on a new children’s story (possibly YA) and this feels apt.