Portrait of the Artist as a Young Blonde
Sustainable Fire, Early Prose
Archive | Past Matters
The Trigger Is Mine
How do you get past it, I ask my shrink, when you never got that sense of acceptance and security as a kid? You’ve got to nurture yourself through those instants, he says, recognize the source of the misery as out of kilter with the stimulus. Realize you’re not lost. You’re an adult….But when you’ve been hurt enough as a kid (or maybe at any age), it’s like you have a trick knee. Most of your life, you can function but add in right portions of sleeplessness and stress and grief, and the hurt, defeated self can bloom into place.–Mary Karr
Gauchos Make the Heart Grow Gladder
Yesterday I read something that described this run of weather we’ve been having in New York as “sprintertime.” It’s an inelegant phrase but accurate just the same: Cold rains, colder winds, and then bright, emotionally distant sunshine. If it suits me fine just now it’s because I’m in the midst of a run of work that’s equally inhospitable. Add in taxes and death–so predictable!–and I’ve become a dreary Dora.
What’s kept me going besides my permakitten joyously galloping around the apartment (she adores these big breezes) is what’s kept me going for an embarrassing swath of my life: the promise of fashion. As a person who works and lives alone and has been trying in recent years to date fewer fuckwits, I do not have as many opportunities for gorgeous dresses as I once did. Most days I wear a caftan until I have to duck out for supplies or a screening. But I study clothes the way my friends with gardens study seed catalogues. Wearable art, candy for the body, uniforms for other, more glamorous lives: As an admirer of beauty not to mention spies, I’ve been fascinated by fashion my whole life. Continue Reading →