I feel like The Marschallin, who looks into the mirror and beholds, with the most fervent of melancholy eyes, time trickle down her face. And there in this posture she is overcome with terror, and wonders in an agonizing whisper, “To where has little Resi left? I don’t see her here any longer.”
She is gone. This wide-eyed little girl that once stood in her place, she has evaporated into an aching wisp of loss, indistinguishable among the grey of history that lilts beside us. How terrible it is! That the more one tries to hold dear, the more her face twists, bends, becomes even more swiftly something insubstantial. To reach and to grab so vehemently, only to find that you destroy through distortion everything you touch, this fills the chest with the most unbearably potent of agitation.
Oh, how every dark and chokingly ink-purple turn of my spirit has been forced to ache on behalf of this irretrievability! How it impudently mourns and sobs for the loss of little Resi. How she has vanished without even being granted the entitlement to a solidly black death! A possessed white ostrich plume stands on the dresser. With the noblest sadness, The Marschallin adorns her coif with the regal feather.
These clocks, these wretched demons; just as we cast our adoringly fright-filled gaze upon them, they disintegrate and warp into all that they’re surrounded with. No matter how stoic, how eternally metronomic they persist, they seem to dissolve like burning crepe paper into thin air, curling and shrinking morbidly into themselves.
I only wish I could blame these revolting and perturbed entities. I am eternally indebted to helplessness and tireless, ceaseless guilt; because it’s the intrinsic nature of existence itself that I myself must uninterruptedly manufacture and release these ghosts into abstraction.
The immortality of these residues, this disturbs with the greatest terror of all.
This looking glass is covered in the fingerprints of a girl that no longer exists. Even as The Marschallin, seated poised and wild-eyed at her vanity, perceives her momentary self before her very own eyes; everything vanishes in that same instant – for every solitary moment of the present has already met its death in the process of becoming.(mo)
Proposed by Dandyakuza on Wednesday 16 June 2010 at 03:41 PM · Permalink
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There is no such thing as a total wash. Even the most obviously pathetic night can take a sudden turn for the best if you have the right attitude. Luckily, attitude is something I’m never short on.
It’s a general rule of mine to steer clear of little boys. But every now and then, someone catches my fancy and I get blindsided. I met Hot 20-Something Guy poolside at Soho House. It must have been his tortoise-shell Persol sunglasses that made me give him my number so willingly. After a week of his cryptic Hot 20-Something Guy texts, he finally figured out how to properly invite me for a drink.
Soho House was packed. As the elevator door slid open, the heat and the music hit me hard. I made my way through the throng of beautiful people out onto the roof deck, where Hot 20-Something Guy was waiting. We stood near the edge of the pool, the Manhattan skyline glistening in the background. Hot 20-Something Guy was getting less hot by the second; making small talk, taking long sips of his drink without offering to buy me one.
Taking the evening into my own hands, I headed for the bar. As I passed through the thickening crowd, I bumped into my former boss – the CEO of a prominent high fashion label. Immaculately dressed in his signature dark denim, white button-down and blazer, he kissed my cheek (proper Brit that he was) and insisted on buying my drink.
I returned to find Hot 20-Something Guy surrounded by a group of friends. After making cursory introductions, he charmingly announced that he was going in search of beer. I chatted up his very unstylish girlfriends (apparently some people still
wear giant hoop earrings in earnest) in between deep drags on my Marlboro Light. A camera flashed as someone snapped my photo; I could not believe I’d donned my vintage Chanel navy matte sequined dress for this
Just as I was about to call it a night, another attractive 20-something guy approached. A friend of Hot 20-Something Guy, this specimen was actually far cuter. Let’s call him Media Guy.
We sat on the plush couches and I couldn’t help but notice our knees gently touching as we talked. Hot 20-Something Guy was nowhere in sight – much to my relief. I placed my hand on Media Guy’s thigh while smiling and gently biting my lower lip. The conversation turned heated; I could tell he was aching to get me home, aching to slide the silk straps of my dress off my shoulders. He invited me back to his place for a nightcap; I couldn’t wait to see what he had in mind.(cima)
Proposed by Dandyakuza on Tuesday 08 June 2010 at 09:58 PM · Permalink
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I called a male model in my office to show him an email Bruce sent me. I couldn’t forward this email so I had to call him in, for interrogation: “Can you explain this, Cory?” I asked as I moved the monitor towards him. "Bruce told me you would've booked GQ Germany if you cooperated with his artistic
endeavors." Cory scratched his head looking embarrassed and upset. "Can you tell me what happened?" I asked, while reaching for the keypad to change my status on Facebook. Cory started explaining. I wasn't really paying him too much attention, but once in a while I looked at him to suggest interest. This is not the first time something like this has happened and I know exactly how to deal with a boy like him in a situation like this. I’ve heard hundreds of stories about Bruce and straight white male models saying the same things about him. Cory replied, "I was completely naked and Mr. Weiner was snapping away. He told me to close my eyes, and so I did. He came closer to me and started whispering weird stuff in my ears… like “feel the air from my mouth” and other stuff. His breath stank and he smelled like an old man who smokes too much! All of a sudden, he groped me and told me to kiss him on the lips so I could book the GQ Germany cover." Hmmm… I stopped trolling for potential male models on Facebook and looked at him, making an effort to show concern. "Well, what did you say to him?" I asked. Cory’s face registered surprise at the fact that I did not react shockingly. "Well I grabbed my clothes and walked out. I really wanted to punch him in the face, but I decide not to," said the 18-year old male model from Alabama. He had a pleading look on his face almost begging me to be his best friend and save him from this situation. "Well Cory, are you sure of what you’re saying? Are you accusing Bruce Weiner of sexual harassment?
" With that, Cory's face suddenly drained of color and he slumped down on the couch beside my desk. "OK let me handle this," I went back typing away and emailed Bruce a short reply saying:
Dear Mr. Weiner,
With all due respect regarding Cory not cooperating. Would it be possible that he is straight? Could there have been any other reason for him to be uncomfortable?
Proposed by Dandyakuza on Tuesday 08 June 2010 at 06:43 PM · Permalink
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