Most Fashionable Reader! Zelda has dragged herself out of The Treacherous Abyss and has pulled herself to her feet to, well, face her demons head-on by writing about some form of some sort of journey into hell. Zelda is not one to rub salt in her wounds, Dear Reader, but she does have a fondness for rubbing alcohol.
James Joyce! Zelda has missed you so! Also Ulysses! Zelda cannot wait to go farther with you! Maybe even third base! And Vivienne! Zelda has missed you more! Zelda has missed you most!
The video below is something that has made Zelda feel better lately. It is a sweet little song — Zelda had forgotten about it until she heard it whilst getting her hair styled last week. Zelda feels the lyrics would have been a tad more cohesive, however, had Anna Nalick written it when she was a little older. Ah, well.
“My God! It’s so beautiful when the boy! Smiles!”
The writing on the wall
Fade past the unglazed mug, the shampoo commercial, the Still Life with Waterfall. Fingers blunt with cold. The sound of an old film. Aspirin tablets, chicken salad sandwiches. Extension cords round the room like lions. The smell of the weak, the descent of their last end –
Preface to the preface: after penning (or, well, typing, really) particularly volatile entries, Vivienne and Zelda had a phone conversation which sounded something like this:
Vivienne: HELLS YEAH!Zelda: I’M COMING ALLLLLLIIIIIIIIVVVVVVEEEE!Vivienne: OUR TIME IS NOOOOOOOWWWWW!
This exchange was followed by an open acknowledgment of and further commitment to the fact that, this time, the Hyacinth Girls are going Balls Out. Balls to the Wall. This, reader, is our commitment to you: we will take no prisoners. We will give no mercy. We will go All Out, Balls Out, All The Time.
And so it begins …
Vivienne has recently publicly announced her Declaration to Quit two things which she now sees as Very Bad Habits: smoking cigarettes and dating. When Vivienne has told people of her Declaration to Quit Smoking, she has received an Overwhelmingly, Undividedly Positive Response. Good for you! Fabulous! I’m so proud! The Declaration to Quit Smoking was met with complete praise and admiration.
However.
When Vivienne has told people of her Declaration to Quit Dating, the response has been muted and/or mixed. While some have been supportive, most have given her a response which one can only translate as I am now going to watch you carefully to make sure you do not climb your stairs and jump out of your second story window. Some have urged her, No, no, Vivienne! Don’t give up! The Man of Your Dreams is just around the corner! Some have said, with a twinkle in their eye and their voice, Oh, you know what’s going to happen now! You’re going to meet The One. I just know it. That’s what happens when you give up. Some have informed her that it isn’t healthy to quit dating. It isn’t healthy to give up.
Really.
Vivienne would like to argue against this. Vivienne would like to argue that both of her Declaration to Quit are, in fact, good for her health.
Let’s take the first Declaration. Smoking is bad for you. All right. We’ve agreed. Smoking is Very Much Not Good for you. It fucks up your lungs and your throat and your nose and one day, if you keep smoking, they’re going to cut out your tongue and your cheeks and you’ll just be a hole with a box that you hold to a hole in your throat to speak. It Is. Not. Good. For. You. Fine. We’ve agreed. That was easy. But when Vivienne says she has made a Declaration to Quit Dating because it is almost if not just as if not MORE damaging than smoking, then we have a problem. Then we have a protest. Oh-HO, then we hear. Vivienne has gone to far.
Vivienne is not going to give you examples of her Dating Nightmares. She is not going to give you examples of physical and psychological abuse, though she could give you plenty. She could give you enough to send you screeching and screaming into the corner. She could give you enough for a lifetime of sleepless nights. But she is not. Instead, she is going to do this.
Consider this: the one relationship all who know Vivienne termed as “healthy.” The one relationship which was a “success.” He was such a good guy! He was The Real Thing! He and Vivienne had long and healthy and open and honest talks! They got along so well! It was The Real Thing! Her therapist — even her therapist – agreed! Vivienne was taking Progress Road straight down the way to Healthy Relationship Lane, where the streets are paved with Bob’s Peppermints and everyone rides My Little Ponies to work!
Consider this: what went on in this one relationship that could be considered a “healthy” “success.” Here, Vivienne began a relationship (this was her first mistake) with a man (this was her second mistake) who worked in the same field she was in (this was her third and perhaps most fatal mistake). And, look, Vivienne isn’t going to give specifics here, as her desire for anonymity overshadows her desire to prove a point, but Vivienne will say that she Is Not Bad at what she does. Vivienne will even go so far as to say that she is Moderately Accomplished at what she does. She does Not Suck at it. But the man with which she was in this “healthy” “successful” relationship — let’s call him A. Hat — the man with which she was in this “healthy” “successful” relationship constantly, nearly daily, made remarks which implied that she did, in some way, suck at this enterprise in which they were both involved. For instance: when Vivienne would mention an Idea in Their Field that Ass H. had never heard of (something which should have happened quite often, as A. Hat really apparently had never evolved his thinking about Their Field past the 1950′s, but Vivienne held back), yes she did, good little girl that Vivienne is!), Ass H. would say look at you, telling me something new! Or, if Vivienne mentioned that she had spent the day working on Things in Their Field, A. Hat would say, look at you, working on your little work! Or, if Vivienne introduced Ass H. to some Literature in Their Field he had never encountered, A. Hat would remark, aw, look at you, reading!
When Vivienne heard this, did she vomit? Did she rip her phone out of its socket and throw it through a plate glass window? Did she rip Ass Hat off his couch and throw him through a plate glass window? No. No, though any of those would have been proper responses, she did not. She smiled. She blushed. She went so far as to giggle. She had to, didn’t she? A. Hat was The Real Thing! What they had was The Real Thing! This was the relationship that even her therapist termed as a “healthy” “success”! This was progress! This was The Relationship as The Relationship was meant to be!
Smoking is dangerous. Yes. Smoking can shorten your lifespan.
But I ask you this: is it worse to live a short life, being exactly and fully who you truly and really ARE, or to live a long life being diminished and put down and belittled and forcing yourself to diminish and put down and belittle yourself, to convince yourself that you are less than you are, just so that you can do what everyone says you should do — i.e., be in a Relationship, look for The One, be married and babied and white fenced and aproned and all?
Underworld: Bedsheets. Streetlamp. Comb.
You in the moment you know you’ll remember it: flipped backup and him working over you, grunt grunt and neversore though you sore, neversore he though you sore though you not sore because you cannot say sore, because you cannot say, flipped backup and him working over you, grunt grunt and neversore and hand firm and flat against flat back of the skull, flipped backup and him working over you, grunt grunt neversore neversore because you cannot say sore because you cannot say, flipped backup and him grunt and you mouth open, flipped backup mouthopen you cannot say sore and sore and flipped open you cannot mouth pillowed no air you cannot flipped backup you in the moment of grunt you’ll remember sore you cannot say you cannot you sore.
Zelda was fully prepared to post this entry last night, Dearest Reader, but, instead, she has been looping the video of Tori Amos performing “Professional Widow” that Our Most Fashionable Vivienne of Fashion posted in her most recent entry for seven hours straight. And, in honor of our Dearest Most Fashionable Vivienne, Zelda shall quote from Tori Amos regarding aforementioned song. Zelda shall show you these quotes, Reader, because they make sense. And, as Tori Amos fans know but do not like to admit, most of what comes out of Tori Amos’s mouth does not make much sense, so these quotes are truly a rarity, because they make perfect freaking sense. And, in actuality, they make the most sense of anything that Zelda has read this entire year, and they have caused Zelda to become obsessed with Tori Amos again, just like she was when she was an undergraduate. So these are some of the Fashionable Things Tori Amos has to say about “Professional Widow”:
“I am very interested in what is strong and what is weak in a person. Interested in my vision of self — how people see me instead of how I see myself. I’ll pull out each part of this being that is judged harshly, and some of these parts are extreme. For instance, ‘Professional Widow’ is an extreme part. It can get hard because I want to be king. All of us women want to be king but we have to be queens. You know, it’s like Lady Macbeth or something.” (from The Dent)
“That’s my Lady Macbeth, the side of me that wanted power. But power in a man’s world. I wanted to be Indiana Jones, not the girlfriend. But as I began to do that I started to alienate many men. ‘Widow’ is my hunger for the energy I felt some of the men in my life possessed: the ability to be king. I wasn’t content just being a muse. I was the creative force. I was in relationships with different men where if they could honour that, they couldn’t honour the woman, and if they could honour the woman, they couldn’t honour the creative force.” (from Pop Idol)
And, my personal favorite:
“Professional Widow is the Lady Macbeth archetype. There are many ways to play Lady Macbeth. It can be done in a Jackie O suit.” (from YesSaid)
Yes! Yes! Yes! A thousand resounding shouts for playing Lady Freaking Macbeth in a Jackie Freaking O suit! Yes! Yes! Yes!
PROPORTION, BOY! IT’S GOTTA BE BIG, I SAID. YOU BETTER BE BIG, BOY!
James Joyce is making Zelda write these things, Dear Reader. It’s all his fault. And with that statement, Zelda moves a smidgen closer to The Ulysses Experiment. . .
But first! Zelda must make a public declaration! To make this public declaration publicly, however, Zelda must first make a rather embarrassing and shameful admission. Zelda must say publicly that she was laid off in August. Zelda must say publicly that she is now unemployed. Zelda must say publicly that she has had no luck in finding employment since being laid off in August. Zelda must say publicly that she has absolutely no money. Zelda must say publicly that cheese has now become an unaffordable luxury in her sad little Household of One.
Now, Zelda can make her public declaration. So here it is:
But seriously, Reader. Zelda doesn’t want to hear it. This is rather difficult for Zelda, for even Zelda’s mother admits that Zelda is a nurturer (among many other things). Stop laughing, Reader — it’s true, Zelda swears.
No transition.
Zelda is mentioning a funeral, methods of death, a raincoat, and a hat in exercise below. And also: for those of you who feel the need to call Zelda and freak out about the freaking economy (Zelda is mostly — but not completely — referring to a non-parental member of her immediate family here, one who will never read her HyacinthGirls.com musings), Zelda has provided an educational Electric Company clip for you below.
Everybody’s in a little pain every once and a while. You’re not the only one. So what do you really gain? It makes no sense to complain!
Cadavers suspended from cloud formations. Notyetwinter means unlined raincoats. The rain like sleet on the unemployment line stretching past the parking lot that cigarettesmoking procession playing a scratched record three tombstones down from your loved one. A man on his cellphone touching his tophat. I am forgetting your tears. To feel comfortable about the dead, break them into pieces. Send my cinders home to Mother.
Vivienne feels shame in writing this entry. Vivienne feels shame in writing this entry because she knows that no entry, no entry ever, ever written, can ever match the pure magic and wisdom and vision of Zelda’s last post. For shame for Vivienne! But for glory for Zelda, Fashionable Zelda of Fashion! Zelda is, indeed, without question, The Girl With the Most Cake.
As for herself, Vivienne has no Cake. And Vivienne has, in fact, decided to refuse all Cake. Though this will make little difference for you, gentle readers, who would certainly not think of dating Vivienne after you have read Vivienne’s Most Private Thinkings, Vivienne must, nonetheless, make this announcement. Vivienne has Taken Herself Off the Market. Officially and, for the moment, finally. Vivienne has wiped all traces of herself from all Internet Dating Catastrophes, and Vivienne has decided to concentrate on what’s really important in life, such as gathering the proper number of cats to eat her face when she dies alone, which, really, she would rather do than continue to try to date the Asshats she has been busy trying to date.
Let’s just take a moment to discuss How This Came To Be, shall we?
Let’s say you are a man. Let’s say you are a man who meets Vivienne on one of the aforementioned Internet Dating Catastrophe Sites. And let’s say that you are a man who takes such a fancy to Vivienne that you compose, for her, long e-mails night after night. You make funny jokes about Twinkies. You say clever and sensitive things about her eyes. And when Vivienne offers you The Window as mentioned by Zelda several entries back, you open the window with all of your might. You are dying to crawl into that window. You open the window, and take Vivienne out for an evening. You and Vivienne have a Fabulous Time of Fashion. You drive aimlessly and see a castle. You drink beverages, for which Vivienne agrees to pay. Your topics of conversation vary from the shapes of various United States to world travels to godchildren. You and Vivienne are Getting Along Like Gangbusters. And you end the evening with Vivienne with a Most Fabulous Front Seat Make-Out Session of Fashion, after which you tell Vivienne you had a lovely time. A Fabulous Time. And you tell her you will talk to her again. You will call her. You will see her, definitely, definitely.
Now.
In this case, you would think you would talk to her again. You would think you would call her. You would think you would see her, definitely, definitely. But do you? No, and no, and no. Instead, you spend all hours of the day and night trolling the aforementioned Internet Dating Catastrophe Sites for Other Women, in plain view of Vivienne. You trade witty banter with aforementioned Other Women in plain view of Vivienne on other Internet Social Networking Sites of Catastrophe. You, in fact, arrange dates with aforementioned Other Women in plain view of Vivienne on aforementioned other Internet Social Networking Sites of Catastrophe, and you arrange said aforementioned dates on days when you told Vivienne, in explicit terms, that you would be Too Busy to See Her.
So Vivienne has had enough. Enough! Away with you, Asshats! Away! Vivienne is going to sit with her antiques and her cats. Vivienne is going to relegate her Dating Shirts and Uncomfortable Dating Bras and hopelessly painful Dating Panties to the deep dark depths of her dresser, where they DESERVE TO BE, and where they shall never again be seen by Asshats who Do Not Deserve Them, anyway. And this, Asshats. This, Vivienne dedicates to you. To all of you. Though you do not deserve the Fashion, the sentiment is right on.
NO TRANSITION, BITCHES! EXERCISE: FUNERAL, METHODS OF DEATH, EXPENSIVE RAINCOAT, HAT.
Rest your shoulder Peaches and Cream
The car ride being hotair and venting, tissues a wad in the purse’s bottom and the same joke the same when I die bury me at night and have everyone turn off their lights the same well the funeral home would love it bring more business and isn’t that the point of everything, the stockbrokers and broken windows. O the last time you saw her she looked so much older, her famous blue raincoat was torn at the shoulder and beneath the fabric what skin could say, what her skin told and taught you. Lie. Bury. Blanket. Being graveside in warmmist and cloudspit. Being graveside the stray dogs whose bodies were graves of themselves with ribs grates. Being one of the dog’s legs raised and pissing against the stone. Had you gone to the station, had you welcomed each train in, still your face would be blur in her memory now notmemory, now something about a hat’s brim tilted above the left eye and poker cards poking beneath his thumb. Something of trainsmoke, whistlemelody. The pills’d be much easier but who can afford them these days, steal them off the hobblers hobbling from the CVS door, vacuum air and sealant, Tylenol and bandage. Believe and belief. Living for nothing now, nothing living. The dog awaywandered and gravestone stillwet.
Circumstances have arisen that have led to an odd necessity, this odd necessity being that Vivienne must look through Photographs of Her Youth, particularly Photographs of Her Youth as a College Student, in order to find An Entirely Appropriate Photograph of Her Youth as a College Student. I admit that I thought this would be an easy undertaking. Apparently, however, in the years since her graduation from college, Vivienne seems to have Completely and Entirely forgotten what her Life as a Youth as a College Student was like. Vivienne found one photograph. She was wearing a black velvet bra and a man’s suit jacket. This, obviously, was Not Entirely Appropriate. Vivienne found a second, third, fourth, and fifth photograph. In all of these photographs, she was holding a wine glass. Not Entirely Appropriate. Vivienne found a sixth and seventh photograph. She was shotgunning a beer in both. Definitely Not Entirely Appropriate. Vivienne found an eighth photograph of her smiling pleasantly in a pleasant pink wool sweater. Vivienne felt hope. Vivienne looked closer. Her roommate’s bong was in the background. Absolutely Definitely Not Entirely Appropriate. Vivienne finally found a ninth photograph of her working hard at her computer. Finally! Appropriateness! But for the “Militant Agnostic: You Don’t Know and I Don’t Know Either” bumper sticker plastered to the wall behind her left shoulder, not to mention the sight of a shirtless man behind her. Absolutely Most Definitely Not Entirely Appropriate. Vivienne now despairs, and thinks An Entirely Appropriate Photograph of Her Youth as a College Student is a non-existant myth.
Which brings us, fashionably, to this evening’s exercise, based on the fourth section of Ulysses, in which Mr. Bloom defecates in the outhouse. In this evening’s exercise, Viv and Zel have agreed to mention something unmentionable. Enjoy.
Wanting I think she wants a man who’s got no time for her because she doesn’t want to have time for a man. Well, maybe she doesn’t want a man. Has that made its way to your thinking? The whole morning a fourcoffee haze, slim white grave in the trashcan and outside the evidence of the well-packed pack all smoked and your thinking what doesn’t kill me now may kill me later, your thinking the smoke can do the job I not brave enough to do. In the meantide convincing theself of living by the cat who without me will have no freshwaterfoodbelledplaythings, she a black prrr in the blacknight. In the meantide not speaking of the notness to the women who heelthump down hallways, coffeesteam and questions your weekend your morning all right?
The top things on my list is this: I have a crush on Paul Kevin Jonas the Second.
Look, I know that this is not right. I know that this is not right at all, in any way. But their music is just so catchy! So upbeat! Such a positive message for the kids these days, and the kids these days really do need a positive message, don’t they? He has luscious curly hair! He performed on So You Think You Can Dance! Cat Deely loved him! Loved him! And Cat Deely is eleven years older than he is, which means that if I am only seven years older than he is, that’s not bad! That’s not bad! Right?
Look, the other thing is this: Vivienne doesn’t know how she feels about this whole cougar thing. Vivienne means by this that she is excited that the older woman/younger man dynamic is being celebrated and appreciated, in some sense, but Vivienne at the same time also doesn’t know how she feels about all of the Fuss about this. Take, for instance, this fact: were Vivienne to realize her sweet sweet dream of meeting Kevin Jonas backstage at So You Think You Can Dance? and taking him into her arms and — well, what have you. Were Vivienne to realize this sweet sweet dream and begin a long and exciting and glamorous and Of Course Scandalous affair with Kevin Jonas, Vivienne would be labeled A Cougar, as she is seven years older than he. Now, look. Here is a brief list of how many years older than her Vivienne’s last boyfriends have been (I’m leaving that sentence. So there. Do what you will with it): 7, 6, 7, and 14. Were these men labeled as Cougars? No! Did anyone even mention this difference in age? No! So why must Vivienne receive a label just because she wants to buy a Kevin Jonas-printed pillow so that she may rest her weary head upon his glory every night? Why does this make her any different — any worse — than the man who was 13 when she was 6?
And now, Vivienne must stop thinking of Kevin Jonas’ glory and perform her writing assignment, inspired by section 3 of Ulysses. And maybe, a little bit, by the thought of running her fingers through Kevin Jonas’ curls.
Sitting bluefurred and her chair highwheeled, she the great guardian of good morals, spouting no wine but grape juice no drinking nor dancing no smoking on Sundays no laundrybasket emptied then re-filled with clean no hands in the dishsoap no bubblegloved forearms the treelights asparkle and from the far kitchen’s corner a clink hidden, Merlot splashed between glass globeside and globeside. The cousins’ children on legs unsteadied running foreheaded against table tops, the gravy boat spitting. Small wooden squares of death walled and captured, memento mori those who one draped legs over chair legs and cursed the potatoes, laying their outpushed teeth on the tablecloth freshlaundered and lavendar scent. The dogcorner, the cousin knelt there with bluevein outsticking, rubber belt in the truckbed, needle and shine.
O readers, o lovers, o comrades in Fashion! Forgive Viv for her most unfortunate Significant Lapse into the Land of Unfashion. I apologize greatly. Circumstances mitigated. Plus, there is this sad fact: whereas Zelda’s always Fashionable life of Fashion becomes even more Fashionable, it seems, during the months of our Blog Projects, Vivienne’s life tends to dissipate into … Well, boredom and busy-ness and routine. To whit: the most Significantly Interesting thing that occurred yesterday was that I was awakened by Manfred Mann Earth Band’s “Blinded by the Light.” You, gentle reader, perhaps have noticed that I termed this event as “Interesting” rather than “Fashionable.” That is because there is, perhaps, nothing less Fashionable than this song. However, this song can be termed as “Interesting” for a number of reasons. First, because I hate it so, and because it was the first song I heard, it played continously in my mind throughout the rest of the day, so that I was kept from pure concentration on Very Important Things by my concentration on just how much said song sucks, and in how many ways its suckage occurs. Secondly, this song may be considered “Interesting” due to my interpretation of the lyrics: whereas the Google claims that the lyrics are “cut loose like a deuce another runner in the night,” I claim that the lyrics are, in fact, “cut loose like a douchbag in the middle of the night,” which is ultimately more Interesting for obvious reasons. Thirdly, this song may be considered a Song of Interest (though not a Song of Fashion, and most certainly not a Fashionable Song of Fashion) because it appears that Bruce Springsteen is the author of said song, and that said song is, in fact, Springsteen’s only number one hit as a song writer, two facts which confirm what will probably be the most controversial statement ever said on this blog: Bruce Springsteen sucks. There. I said it, and I meant it. Bruce Springsteen wouldn’t know Fashion if it slapped him with a gloved hand on that face.
Please view this Complete Absence of Fashion as proof.
And now, dear friends, after that shocking but very true statement, I turn to our Ulysses-inspired writing exercise for the day, created Most Fashionably by the Most Fashionable Zelda: to describe a process, as inspired by the classroom scene in part two of Ulysses. This, and the first part of Ulysses, dedicated largely to shaving, has led me to think a great deal about how often a man‘s shaving process has been described in literature, whereas a woman‘s shaving process hasn’t. I will certainly ruminate on this in future Poemlogues, perhaps giving Helpful Tips to the Chillbumped, but, in the meantime, this.
This the blade wavelike, tiding the leg cast shadowed and downed, unnacceptable and needing acceptance. This the twin bladed blade of your hope, this the twinned blade of your hope and invitation, and the hand slipped under the tablecloth under the table under the skirt under the slip, this the twinned blade to prepare for what you’ve prepared for so many years, modeled with plasticdoll with bestfriend with basement lampshaded and carpet unrolled, Coke bottle unCoked and spinning and your hope then as always to land on the good one, to land on the good one you asked to the party you asked to the basement you asked for when you laid the rose scarf over the lampshade to rosesun it, show your skin as you wished your skin to be seen not poxmarked and pimplemarred but rosesunned the shimmer of movie and glow. This the blade you will wield legwise showerwet, this the blade you will lead down the legline so often unstraight, so often slipping and scraping and these the scars you’ll call warwounds, this the bloodcollector slid between tiles that slid your feet to slipping, the blade to slipping, the hope to slipping yearward with hairfall and drain caught, this the eyeskin dropping, this the body you can no longer name.
Dearest, Most Fashionable Reader: I’ve a story to tell you. Earlier this evening, a Fashionable Friend and I went to eat dinner at a Very Fine Establishment. Soon after sitting down at this Very Fine Establishment, she and I heard the symphonic sound of Harley engines nearing. Now, even though I’m quite aware of the fact that most bikers aren’t as sexy as Gar from Mask, or even Mel Gibson during the Mad Max years, I can’t help but admit that every time I hear a Harley coming closer, my heart beats just a little bit faster. My heart can’t help but beat with hope, Dear Reader. But with hope. But I am afraid to say, Most Fashionable Reader, that the bikers who entered this Very Fine Establishment resembled neither Gar nor Mad Max Mel. But still: they sat right beside us, and that is where this story begins.
Unfashionably Grizzled Biker: You know that shop down the road? The one that woman owns?
Grizzled Biker of Unfashion: Ramona?
Unfashionably Grizzled Biker: Yeah.
Grizzled Biker of Unfashion: Is she really a woman?
Unfashionably Grizzled Biker: That’s the whole point. See I walked in there the other day. So I said, ‘Ramona did you know that some people don’t think you’re a woman?’ I said, ‘So Ramona are you a woman or a man?’
Grizzled Biker of Unfashion: Uh huh. [Insert wheezing laugh here.]
Unfashionably Grizzled Biker: So get this. She says, ‘You take me to the bar and buy me a shot and I’ll give you some.’ So yeah I got me some that night.
What is most interesting to me about the above conversation, Dear Reader, is the fact that the Unfashionably Grizzled Biker never revealed whether Ramona was male or female. So the end of this story will always be a mystery.
O yeah! The poem! For this exercise, the Most Fashionable Vivienne and I read the first section of Ulysses and responded with a real-time imaginary conversation with a person of our choosing.
What is implied through studies of use and meaning? Through the hissing up of petticoats?
The water boiling in White Kettle with Teabrown Interior. The square leafpouch waiting patiently by the mug. The tea whistle indiscernible from the bikerband across the asphalt, bikerband indiscernible from Television Snowblare in Livingroom. (There being no free drinks on this island.)
- – I think I should be able to free myself. I speak freely of the collector of precipices. After I left, he bought a birdcage from the auction.
The buttercups leaping from quilt to Fireplace during this Phase of the Secondhand Moon. A wasted body bending its waist. Many hours shifting house in Polkadotted Dress with Teabrown Armpits.
A chorus whirling.
- – I remember nothing. Only ideas. Sensations. An odor of incense. Breath.
Well hello! Welcome to this Missive of Fashion! Zelda realizes that it has been quite some time since she and the Most Fashionable Vivienne have written. Zelda is writing to you, Most Fashionable Reader, to reveal that she and the Most Fashionable Vivienne apologize for this travesty. Zelda is here to tell you, Most Fashionable Reader, that she and the Most Fashionable Vivienne will soon return to grace the presence of their very own blog. She and Vivienne are also here to tell you, Most Fashionable Reader, that you will not be disappointed when they do. Zelda and Vivienne will return to TheHyacinthGirls.com on the First of October, 2008. At present, they are getting quite comfortable in their alter-alter egos: Vivienne as Bette Davis, and Zelda as Joan Crawford.
Would you, Most Fashionable Reader, like to have a peek at what Vivienne and Zelda will be working on during the month of October? Here it is:
Don’t call it a comeback, Most Fashionable Readers; Vivienne and Zelda have been here for years.
Fashion alert! Fashion alert! Vivienne has just now, through the Fashion of Facebook, discovered that there is a band … CALLED THE FASHION! Vivienne posts The Fashion of The Fashion below:
Upon reflection, however, Vivienne is not sure how Fashionable The Fashion actually are. For some reason, she was imagining moody boys wearing eyeliner, sighing into the microphone like David Bowie, perhaps with his electric red hair and white face paint, perhaps with very tight pants, and definitely, absolutely with lyrics about the dangerous temptation to simply steer one’s spaceship into space and let the circuit die, the engine go — oh, I can hear you, Major Tom. Oh, I can hear.
IN FACT, let’s all take a moment to reflect upon the following Undeniably Fashionable Fashion Beyond Any Other Fashion:
IN FACT, let’s all take a moment to, perhaps, take another look at that Undeniably Fashionable Fashion Beyond Any Other Fashion. IN FACT, let’s all take a moment to, perhaps, remember that moment in our childhood when our parents finally could afford cable and gave us the gift of MTV, and, upon a rare unsupervised moment with this new wonder, we began flipping through channels, and found this Fashionable Apex of Fashion broadcast over the air waves, making the very air itself an Air of Wonder and Fashion, and let’s remember that moment when Bowie’s anguished visage appeared on the screen, and his anguish became such that he could no longer manage playing the guitar, and, instead, stared straight into the camera — no, not straight into the camera, straight into your eyes — no, not straight into your eyes, straight into the Very Most Fashionable Part of Your Very Most Fashionable Soul of Fashion, and you could see the concern in his eyes, and the care, and the deep and intense yet gentle desire, and the love, yes, yes, even the LOVE in his agonized hand gestures, and something melted within you that would never ice over again, and you for the first time felt that Strange Tingle you would later feel every day in Geometry class when David came in and you caught a whiff of his Cool Water, that Very Strange Tingle that would never quite be the same or as glorious as it was, just then, with David Bowie directing all of his Fashionable Fashion through his Impeccably and Exquisitely Fashionably Kohl-Rimmed Eyes of Fashion at your soul, your Soul, your SOUL.
MAN. I need a cigarette now.
Oh, yeah. The poem. The following is a poem made with the constraint of homoconsonatism. The source text? The towns I passed during my road trip.
Museum of Appalachia
Laid on_____line_____cut
as a quay_____oh_____eker_____I’d go
cool_____I’ll hone_____raccoon evil_____lie
ice_____lain onto guard_____guest park
my same people_____chalk city
cove_____licks to prick
come_____be real_____undo
gaps_____joy’ll candy
haunt_____save_____I’ll
sit_____ink ice_____irk red
rare time_____not on roads.
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It's very dramatic.
Posted by zeldafitzgerald 
Habits: smoking cigarettes and dating. When Vivienne has told people of her Declaration to Quit Smoking, she has received an Overwhelmingly, Undividedly Positive Response. Good for you! Fabulous! I’m so proud! The Declaration to Quit Smoking was met with complete praise and admiration.
her, No, no, Vivienne! Don’t give up! The Man of Your Dreams is just around the corner! Some have said, with a twinkle in their eye and their voice, Oh, you know what’s going to happen now! You’re going to meet The One. I just know it. That’s what happens when you give up. Some have informed her that it isn’t healthy to quit dating. It isn’t healthy to give up.
isn’t going to give specifics here, as her desire for anonymity overshadows her desire to prove a point, but Vivienne will say that she Is Not Bad at what she does. Vivienne will even go so far as to say that she is Moderately Accomplished at what she does. She does Not Suck at it. But the man with which she was in this “healthy” “successful” relationship — let’s call him A. Hat — the man with which she was in this “healthy” “successful” relationship constantly, nearly daily, made remarks which implied that she did, in some way, suck at this enterprise in which they were both involved. For instance: when Vivienne would mention an Idea in Their Field that Ass H. had never heard of (something which should have happened quite often, as A. Hat really apparently had never evolved his thinking about Their Field past the 1950′s, but Vivienne held back), yes she did, good little girl that Vivienne is!), Ass H. would say look at you, telling me something new! Or, if Vivienne mentioned that she had spent the day working on Things in Their Field, A. Hat would say, look at you, working on your little work! Or, if Vivienne introduced Ass H. to some Literature in Their Field he had never encountered, A. Hat would remark, aw, look at you, reading!
as The Real Thing! This was the relationship that even her therapist termed as a “healthy” “success”! This was progress! This was The Relationship as The Relationship was meant to be!
Zelda was fully prepared to post this entry last night, Dearest Reader, but, instead, she has been looping the video of Tori Amos performing “Professional Widow” that Our Most Fashionable Vivienne of Fashion posted in her most recent entry for seven hours straight. And, in honor of our Dearest Most Fashionable Vivienne, Zelda shall quote from Tori Amos regarding aforementioned song. Zelda shall show you these quotes, Reader, because they make sense. And, as Tori Amos fans know but do not like to admit, most of what comes out of Tori Amos’s mouth does not make much sense, so these quotes are truly a rarity, because they make perfect freaking sense. And, in actuality, they make the most sense of anything that Zelda has read this entire year, and they have caused Zelda to become obsessed with Tori Amos again, just like she was when she was an undergraduate. So these are some of the Fashionable Things Tori Amos has to say about “Professional Widow”:
“That’s my Lady Macbeth, the side of me that wanted power. But power in a man’s world. I wanted to be Indiana Jones, not the girlfriend. But as I began to do that I started to alienate many men. ‘Widow’ is my hunger for the energy I felt some of the men in my life possessed: the ability to be king. I wasn’t content just being a muse. I was the creative force. I was in relationships with different men where if they could honour that, they couldn’t honour the woman, and if they could honour the woman, they couldn’t honour the creative force.” (from 
But first! Zelda must make a public declaration! To make this public declaration publicly, however, Zelda must first make a rather embarrassing and shameful admission. Zelda must say publicly that she was laid off in August. Zelda must say publicly that she is now unemployed. Zelda must say publicly that she has had no luck in finding employment since being laid off in August. Zelda must say publicly that she has absolutely no money. Zelda must say publicly that cheese has now become an unaffordable luxury in her sad little Household of One.
But seriously, Reader. Zelda doesn’t want to hear it. This is rather difficult for Zelda, for even Zelda’s mother admits that Zelda is a nurturer (among many other things). Stop laughing, Reader — it’s true, Zelda swears.
make little difference for you, gentle readers, who would certainly not think of dating Vivienne after you have read Vivienne’s Most Private Thinkings, Vivienne must, nonetheless, make this announcement. Vivienne has Taken Herself Off the Market. Officially and, for the moment, finally. Vivienne has wiped all traces of herself from all Internet Dating Catastrophes, and Vivienne has decided to concentrate on what’s really important in life, such as gathering the proper number of cats to eat her face when she dies alone, which, really, she would rather do than continue to try to date the Asshats she has been busy trying to date.
Dating Catastrophe Sites. And let’s say that you are a man who takes such a fancy to Vivienne that you compose, for her, long e-mails night after night. You make funny jokes about Twinkies. You say clever and sensitive things about her eyes. And when Vivienne offers you The Window as mentioned by Zelda several entries back, you open the window with all of your might. You are dying to crawl into that window. You open the window, and take Vivienne out for an evening. You and Vivienne have a Fabulous Time of Fashion. You drive aimlessly and see a castle. You drink beverages, for which Vivienne agrees to pay. Your topics of conversation vary from the shapes of various United States to world travels to godchildren. You and Vivienne are Getting Along Like Gangbusters. And you end the evening with Vivienne with a Most Fabulous Front Seat Make-Out Session of Fashion, after which you tell Vivienne you had a lovely time. A Fabulous Time. And you tell her you will talk to her again. You will call her. You will see her, definitely, definitely.
hopelessly painful Dating Panties to the deep dark depths of her dresser, where they DESERVE TO BE, and where they shall never again be seen by Asshats who Do Not Deserve Them, anyway. And this, Asshats. This, Vivienne dedicates to you. To all of you. Though you do not deserve the Fashion, the sentiment is right on.
Completely and Entirely forgotten what her Life as a Youth as a College Student was like. Vivienne found one photograph. She was wearing a black velvet bra and a man’s suit jacket. This, obviously, was Not Entirely Appropriate. Vivienne found a second, third, fourth, and fifth photograph. In all of these photographs, she was holding a wine glass. Not Entirely Appropriate. Vivienne found a sixth and seventh photograph. She was shotgunning a beer in both. Definitely Not Entirely Appropriate. Vivienne found an eighth photograph of her smiling pleasantly in a pleasant pink wool sweater. Vivienne felt hope. Vivienne looked closer. Her roommate’s bong was in the background. Absolutely Definitely Not Entirely Appropriate. Vivienne finally found a ninth photograph of her working hard at her computer. Finally! Appropriateness! But for the “Militant Agnostic: You Don’t Know and I Don’t Know Either” bumper sticker plastered to the wall behind her left shoulder, not to mention the sight of a shirtless man behind her. Absolutely Most Definitely Not Entirely Appropriate. Vivienne now despairs, and thinks An Entirely Appropriate Photograph of Her Youth as a College Student is a non-existant myth.
Dearest, Most Fashionable Reader: I’ve a story to tell you. Earlier this evening, a Fashionable Friend and I went to eat dinner at a Very Fine Establishment. Soon after sitting down at this Very Fine Establishment, she and I heard the symphonic sound of Harley engines nearing. Now, even though I’m quite aware of the fact that most bikers aren’t as sexy as Gar from Mask, or even Mel Gibson during the Mad Max years, I can’t help but admit that every time I hear a Harley coming closer, my heart beats just a little bit faster. My heart can’t help but beat with hope, Dear Reader. But with hope. But I am afraid to say, Most Fashionable Reader, that the bikers who entered this Very Fine Establishment resembled neither Gar nor Mad Max Mel. But still: they sat right beside us, and that is where this story begins.
Unfashionably Grizzled Biker: You know that shop down the road? The one that woman owns?
Dearest, Most Fashionable Reader:
