Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Sheila Levine Is Dead and Living In New York
I didn't go to my high school prom, but I like to dress up so here's my attempt at recreating what might have been the happiest part of the night, the preparation. Anticipation has so much charm that the thing itself so often lacks. I suppose that I really blew it in my youth, having come of age in the 80s in Texas and instead of living it up fashion-wise, I was in my militant feminist phase (still am in my mind if not outfits) -- no make-up, no hair style (save for a disastrous Oglive home perm -- think poodle, think poodle in the rain, think humiliation and pain, pain, pain), and no bra (not that this was an issue when you weighed all of ninety pounds and had no chest to speak of). I worshipped at the shrine of books written in the 70s about women on the edge, bursting out of patriarchal constraint into meaningful lives or trapped women that I could understood. And who could blame me? The 80s offered me a steady stream of excess to observe -- gold nugget jewelry, tennis bracelets, hideous shoulderpads, warnings on magazines about becoming an old maid. (Remember People's Cover -- Are These The New Old Maids?) The show thirtysomething was another trauma, but I was addicted to it merely for the fact that the characters had gone to college and were living in Philadelphia. It wasn't, say, Hee-Haw, which was certainly closer to my life.
Michelle's Spell of the Day
"Posing, always posing, but for who?" Jean Nathan
Snack of the Day (to go with a Spell from an earlier post)
Crackers topped with low-fat cream cheese and black caviar. Serve on pretty little tray to your favorite little friends.
Benedictions and Maledictions
I’ve never been much to look at, she
said, so I’ve had to develop my mind.
Men aren’t crazy about that, they don’t
promise to leave their wives because you’re
so fucking smart. Because you’re asking,
I’ll say that I’m the apartment door you
pass each day on your way to somewhere
else and maybe sometimes I put up a wreath
that reminds you of the season and you think
that’s nice, you admire the effort in such
obviously depleted circumstances and you rush
past onto your love or your work or to get
something to eat. Are we finished here?