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.
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.
Dearest, Most Fashionable Reader: Zelda has a problem. Now, Zelda realizes that she is hardly back in the saddle when it comes to the dating scene, since Roxette was still releasing new music when she last dated, but she felt that certain statements would still ring true within the dating world. Such as: if two people have massive quantities of sex over an extended period of time, then they will be forced to come up for air eventually and, during aforementioned air gathering, they would, perhaps, get a bite or two to eat or watch a movie. Such as: if two people go to restaurants and the cinema together, if two people spend time out in public together and enjoy aforementioned time, then they will eventually end up enjoying the other’s, ah, company in the bedroom. These two statements have not rung true for Zelda, Reader. Zelda illustrates this with the following illustration:
And, like Dearest, Dearest Vivienne, I can offer you no transition to this imaginary letter written to an imaginary person from an imaginary person, which was inspired by Martha’s letter to Leopold Bloom a/k/a Henry Flower Esq. I can offer you only the video below — which is Liz Phair performing the fabulous “Flower” live. Unlike most of her live performances, however, this one is actually quite good. There’s even an extra verse at the end!
Also, Reader: Zelda would like to apologize for the nastiness (hers as well as Liz Phair’s) in the letter below but would also like to blame it on James Joyce.
the masochist says hit me and the sadist says no
naughty you no massaging your silly thinskin your babyfine headhair your naughtynaughty slapsore cock pam grier from a cheap frame watching us fuck and my fingers splaying and pressing your headboard (moving to livingroom) pam grier from a cheap frame watching us fuck and your cock being fucked on the sofa you like to be fucked your cock to be smacked and pulled I have noticed your eyes railroading me with want (with your hair I am making saltwater taffy) I wait for the want to escape your lips for naughtyyou to say –
Look, Fair Readers. You have stuck with me for quite a bit. Through thick and thin, as it were. And, as it is, I will make this admission:
Vivienne’s life is a disaster.
I mean, a Courtney-Love-at-five-a.m. disaster. A late-Judy-Garland-attempting-to-film-Valley-of-the-Dolls disaster. A Liza-Minelli-at-any-point disaster. Together? Vivienne does not have a whit of it. And so, Vivienne is not quite sure why she has taken this, this very moment, this Judy-Garland-in-tragic-sunglasses moment, to quit smoking.
Careful Readers may be saying to themselves: Quit smoking? I thought Vivienne already quit smoking. I thought that happened years ago. Yes, Careful Readers, you are correct. Vivienne did quit smoking, and it did happen years ago. But Vivienne took up smoking again. And here Vivienne makes a sad admission: Vivienne’s journey back down Nicotine Way started because of a man (actually, in an attempt to talk to a man in an unguarded smokehazed moment, during which said man confessed his homosexual tendencies, which Vivienne ignored to date him anyway) and continued because of a man (a man who, in Ms. Big Edie Bouvier-Beales’ words, was so warm on the telephone but so cold in person) (whose behavior also hinted at homosexual tendencies, which Vivienne ignored to semi-date him anyway, which brings to mind a pattern …). And so, in order to liberate herself of Said Men, Vivienne is going to quit smoking.
Which leads Vivienne to think of her other additions: besides her addiction to dating and semi-dating men with homosexual tendencies, there is her addition to Diet Coke. Smoking is bad. Yes. This, Vivienne can clearly see. Diet Coke? Nothing can convince her. Her doctor tells her to stop drinking Diet Coke because it is eating her bones. Vivienne is so exhausted by this news that she can do nothing but drink a Diet Coke. Vivienne watches footage of an egg dropped in Diet Coke. Vivienne watches as its shell dissolves. Vivienne thinks, how refreshing would a cold Diet Coke be right now? Vivienne’s teeth fall out because she drinks so much Diet Coke. Vivienne thinks, perhaps I could freeze Diet Coke in a dental mold?
And now, I provide you with no clear transition to tonight’s Ulysses assignment, inspired by Chapter 5, in which Mr. Bloom wanders around, tears up a letter, thinks about sluts, and witnesses an odd version of mass in which the Eucharist seems to come before the Gospel (perhaps this is just his perception, though): an imagine letter from an imaginary person. Who is, hopefully, happily drinking a Diet Coke, smoking a Camel, and just acting on his homosexual tendencies fergod’ssake like he should’ve done instead of all that damned repression.
Dearest Y.,
As for the fish I am not sure. Perhaps when feeding the tank left open, perhaps flipped themselves outwards. Somewhere I read of their teeth though not sure this is a true thing. Have you left the flowers where they were or are they elsewhere aplantered? Last night I could swear bright as day. The moon or something. Six cents a sheet, the copies are, and the library overrun with moths. Ate the verbs out and all of the Rs in the Oxford. Crying shame, hidden in that dress in the corner, with the stains on the glovetips and seed pearls rolling. Perhaps Sunday? Or the hot rolls and the coffee burnt, heating element eternal lit, red eye in the night. Lit his smoke on it and caught the hair on fire, poor guy. Bugger he or should’ve been. Or would’ve wished to. Pour out the last of the glasses and call a night to it, will you? Yes then. Yes.
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?
Forgive the tardiness of this post, my dear friends. Yesterday, the Dread Beast of Exhaustion wrestled me to the ground, and I could not resist. Incidentally, the Dread Beast of Exhaustion led Vivienne to look exactly like Bette Davis in Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte, after evil Cousin Miriam’s dread medicine worked its magic and, after a vision of masked dancers and Dr. Drew (am I the only one who could not help but think of Loveline whilst Dr. Drew was onscreen in said film?) risen from his watery grave, she collapsed upon the stairs. Vivienne is, in fact, surprised that she did not collapse upon her own stairs in her journey bedward, and is grateful that her stairs are carpeted, as she expects that this shall, indeed, occur at some point in the near future. In the meanwhile, Vivienne greatly misses Zelda, who has been engaged in Fashionable Activities of Fashion which are far too Fashionable for Vivienne to even begin to mention when she has only had a cup and a half of coffee. Fare thee well, Fashionable Zelda of Fashion! If our souls are two, they are two so as stiff twin compasses are two! My soul, the fix’d foot, doth not move except to bed after wrestling the Dread Beast of Exhaustion; thy soul far doth roam into the realm of Fashion. But we shall end where we began, in Fashion, accompanied by Diamond Heart Necklaces and the melodious voice of Courtney Love!
And now, Vivienne unwisely begins the unwise portion of this entry, for which she is woefully unqualified and sorely undercaffeinated, but which she will nevertheless unwisely attempt.
Vivienne Perhaps Unwisely Enters into a Discussion of Religious Significances in the First Two Sections of Ulysses
First and foremost: the image of shaving, with which Joyce begins Ulysses. This is, indeed, an image rich with Serious Religious Implications in many religions, the Serious Religious Implications being in the vein of beginning a religious quest. There is, of course, the importance of shaving in Catholicism, with which Joyce was obviously familiar: nuns having their heads shaved during Holy Orders, and monks with their tonsure. Of course, shaving is also of great importance in Buddhism. Take, for instance, Chikamatsu Monzaemon’s joruri plays of the shinju, or “love suicide,” or “double suicide,” variety, particularly The Love Suicides at Amijima and The Love Suicides at Sonezaki. The lovers cut off their hair in order to become monks and nuns at the end of their multi-bridge journey towards death, an act which seems resonant here.
Secondly, Vivienne would like to take some time to further contemplate something which seems to be of great significance in the text: Daedelus’ use of algebra to discover that Hamlet is his own father. Let her break down her thinking:
Dedalus does not use textual implications to discover this fact.
Dedalus must, instead, use algebra, or the language of mathematics, for this discovery.
There is herein the implication that we must use a language other than our own, other than the language systems we’ve set up for daily communication, to discover Great Truths, particularly Great Truths of Religious Import.
This also seems implied by Joyce’s use of Latin phrases from the Mass and from the Requiem Mass, which further implies that we cannot discover Great Truths of Religious Import or, in another sense, communicate with or about God in our own language.
Both Latin and mathematics are languages which are either, in the case of Latin, no longer used to communicate, or which cannot be used in verbal communication.
The implication here seems to be that God is something above and beyond us, not an existing part of the everyday world, which we cannot reach in our daily lives, and which few, if any of us, can understand.
Dedalus uses this Other Language to discover that Hamlet is his own father.
If we consider the Roman Catholic idea of the Trinity, with Christ as the Son and God as the Father and the Holy Ghost, and all being one, one can see that Christ also is His own Father.
If, like Christ, Hamlet is his own Father, in avenging his Father, he is only avenging Himself, the implication perhaps being that any act that we perform on behalf of another is, in a very real way, simply an act we perform for ourselves.
If, like Hamlet, Christ is his own Father, Christ’s appearance on earth can be seen as a form of revenge, avenging the world for forgetting his Father much as Hamlet exacts revenge upon Gertrude and Claudius for forgetting his Father.
Indeed, Christ’s appearance on earth led human beings into roughly 2,000 years of warfare, which continues to this day — what could be greater revenge?
There is also, herein, the implication that if God and Christ are one, and God controls all things, and God sent Christ to die for us, God committed suicide, in a very real sense.
If this is seen as logically true, it can also be logically construed that God killed his presence on earth, meaning that God is no longer a part of our daily lives.
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.
Vivienne has always felt a special affinity for that particular scene in Office Space in which Peter, Michael Bolton, and Samir take an office machine (Vivienne’s memory is not particularly good about this — could it be a fax machine? A printer? A copier? Printer sounds most likely) into a field and beat the everliving daylights out of it with baseball bats. Vivienne felt a particularly special affinity for said scene this afternoon, when a malfunctioning Office Machine of this kind trapped her into an encounter with her Ultimate Nemesis.
Now, encounters with Ultimate Nemeses are bad enough, especially when said Ultimate Nemesis resembles The Nothing much more than any other human being, animal, plant, rock, or anything composed of electrons, protons, and neutrons known to exist upon the planet. Encounters with Ultimate Nemeses should occur only when one is dressed as fabulously as Bette Davis in her early career and has had enough cocktails to be spontaneously witty. Encounters with Ultimate Nemeses should never, ever, never occur when one has not done one’s hair. Encounters with Ultimate Nemeses should never, ever, never, EVER occur when accompanied by Office Machine malfunctions which require one to be viewed in profile (which is really not the way that Vivienne wishes to be viewed, due mostly to her Roman nose, which has, more than once, been cleverly described as “yeah, ROAMIN’ AROUND YOUR FACE!”), and when the aforementioned profile view allows the Ultimate Nemesis a clear view of a Very Serious Blemish. I’m talking, the kind of Very Serious Blemish that might appear just before one’s prom. I’m talking, the kind of Very Serious Blemish that invariably appeared right on the tip of your nose on the morning of school picture day, that no amount of toothpaste would dry, that no amount of carefully applying your mother’s industrial strength under-eye concealer would cover. THAT kind of Very Serious Blemish.
Nonetheless, Vivienne has Sucked It Up, and her encounter with the Ultimate Nemesis has inspired her. See, when Vivienne encounters the Ultimate Nemesis, she tends to think of fire-breathing hell beasts, and all kinds of terrifying mythological monsters whose sole purpose is to suck the souls from well-meaning human beings. Which got her to thinking about the chimera, which got her to writing one. The base text of this chimera comes from I Can Read About Weather, a very informative textbook on just the same subject published by Troll Press in 1975. The nouns come from the aforementioned Two Women, so that the I may receive a mystical visitation from the spitfire fabulousness that is Sophia Loren. The verbs come from Effective Small Group Communication, Second Edition, an instructive text that my Ultimate Nemesis has much need of reading. The adjectives come from Sonya Fitzpatrick’s, THE PET PSYCHIC’s, master oeuvre, Cat Talk: The Secrets of Communicating with Your Cat, whose gentle words will probably lull me to sleep tonight.
I Emerge, Divide Up the Cloth Wrappings
When you laugh at the face, do you smile
out of the squall to see what kind of road
it’s responding to give? Do you tell
the suitcases and pantomime about
the napkins? Some towns watch acutely.
Some sums like calming and daunting.
And on some heads, enlightened, lost
shoes of stockings try out the provisions.
All of these take different kinds
of parcels. The war, all around
you, demonstrates part of the stones,
too. So when you accomplish in
and when you notice out, you are ignoring
a case of the Rome. There continues
some kind of Ciociara in pregnant cloaks
of the grass. Somewhere, distances insult
sunbathing. Somewhere else, a soul is raging.
People groan and the countryside ought
to knock the city. What will be
the dweller? What will expect
the signs? What releases beloved
kinds of frankness?
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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!
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.
Dearest, Most Fashionable Reader: Zelda has a problem. Now, Zelda realizes that she is hardly back in the saddle when it comes to the dating scene, since 
to a man in an unguarded smokehazed moment, during which said man confessed his homosexual tendencies, which Vivienne ignored to date him anyway) and continued because of a man (a man who, in Ms. Big Edie Bouvier-Beales’ words, was so warm on the telephone but so cold in person) (whose behavior also hinted at homosexual tendencies, which Vivienne ignored to semi-date him anyway, which brings to mind a pattern …). And so, in order to liberate herself of Said Men, Vivienne is going to quit smoking.
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.
Fashionable Zelda of Fashion! If our souls are two, they are two so as stiff twin compasses are two! My soul, the fix’d foot, doth not move except to bed after wrestling the Dread Beast of Exhaustion; thy soul far doth roam into the realm of Fashion. But we shall end where we began, in Fashion, accompanied by Diamond Heart Necklaces and the melodious voice of Courtney Love!
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?
Vivienne has always felt a special affinity for that particular scene in Office Space in which Peter, Michael Bolton, and Samir take an office machine (Vivienne’s memory is not particularly good about this — could it be a fax machine? A printer? A copier? Printer sounds most likely) into a field and beat the everliving daylights out of it with baseball bats. Vivienne felt a particularly special affinity for said scene this afternoon, when a malfunctioning Office Machine of this kind trapped her into an encounter with her Ultimate Nemesis.
Nonetheless, Vivienne has Sucked It Up, and her encounter with the Ultimate Nemesis has inspired her. See, when Vivienne encounters the Ultimate Nemesis, she tends to think of fire-breathing hell beasts, and all kinds of terrifying mythological monsters whose sole purpose is to suck the souls from well-meaning human beings. Which got her to thinking about the chimera, which got her to writing one. The base text of this chimera comes from I Can Read About Weather, a very informative textbook on just the same subject published by Troll Press in 1975. The nouns come from the aforementioned Two Women, so that the I may receive a mystical visitation from the spitfire fabulousness that is Sophia Loren. The verbs come from Effective Small Group Communication, Second Edition, an instructive text that my Ultimate Nemesis has much need of reading. The adjectives come from Sonya Fitzpatrick’s, THE PET PSYCHIC’s, master oeuvre, Cat Talk: The Secrets of Communicating with Your Cat, whose gentle words will probably lull me to sleep
tonight.
