when i was a little kid, into teenagerism, i loved changing my clothes, numerous times a day. i kept a huge stash of clothing and i would just change every few hours, just for the sheer joy of it, checking myself out in my mother's very flattering vanity mirror. the lighting was just right, the mirror just so. there was never a bad angle. i can't even imagine where the clothes came from in those days, but truly they all looked great.
that was pretty magical. sadly, at some point, sucking up my own physical beauty in a random assortment of clothes somehow wore off, i'm not sure why. i think it was college and pizza.
this memory, combined with my adolescent, adulthood-impeding obsession with fairy tales, came to mind today as i trudged in serious stalwart style under a steady stream of unseasonably cold June afternoon New York City rain. why is it that memories like that, of yourself in the mirror when you're 12 are so tasty, you wish you could suck the marrow straight from them, then smack your shiny lips to top it all off.
later, at dinner, someone mentioned Orpheus, his love for Eurydice, and we all know what happened when he looked back.
last night, i dreamt of my recently deceased grandmother, my namesake. she appeared real, as "real", but as an abstract, moving, floating painting. in the living room, there was a baby grand piano that i wanted immediately removed.
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that was pretty magical. sadly, at some point, sucking up my own physical beauty in a random assortment of clothes somehow wore off, i'm not sure why. i think it was college and pizza.
this memory, combined with my adolescent, adulthood-impeding obsession with fairy tales, came to mind today as i trudged in serious stalwart style under a steady stream of unseasonably cold June afternoon New York City rain. why is it that memories like that, of yourself in the mirror when you're 12 are so tasty, you wish you could suck the marrow straight from them, then smack your shiny lips to top it all off.
later, at dinner, someone mentioned Orpheus, his love for Eurydice, and we all know what happened when he looked back.
last night, i dreamt of my recently deceased grandmother, my namesake. she appeared real, as "real", but as an abstract, moving, floating painting. in the living room, there was a baby grand piano that i wanted immediately removed.
.JPG)
: Bushwick. What?
