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 –

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.

“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:

IF YOU HAVE A JOB, ZELDA DOESN’T WANT TO HEAR YOU TALKING ABOUT FREAKING OUT ABOUT THE FREAKING ECONOMY. Zelda has her Own Personal Economy to worry about. Zelda is no longer going to reach her Fashionable Hand of Fashion to you in an attempt to pull you out of your despair over the present economy-in-general. That means you Andy Secher at Hit Parader, Circus Magazine, Mick Wall at Kerrang, Bob Guccione Jr. at Spin. . .

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!

Ballistics Studies Reveal Forgiven Debt, Uxoricide, Filicide, Attempted Suicide, Suicide

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.

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.

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 –

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.

Regards.

FS

Now, it’s always good to have a plan in certain situations, Dearest Reader. [And yes, Zelda is aware that this entry is sounding more and more like a daily devotional.] And today, O Reader, Zelda would like to share how she deals with one of her unmentionables.

Which brings me to, right after these ellipses . . . A SHANE MACGOWAN VIDEO! ABOUT! DRINKING! IN WHICH! HE IS! SOBER! Or looks it anyway. This most fabulous video also stars (& was directed by) the Delectable Johnny Depp in 1994, back when Johnny Depp was still delectable. Near the end of the video, you will see someone dancing on a bar table in the background. This, my Dearest, Fashionable Readers, would be Zelda.

Head straight for the bar and get a glass of ginger ale.

I’ve had my share. Not on Thursdays, darling. No. No. No, but thanks. It wouldn’t mix well with the antipsychotics. Not with these boots on, dear. But I’m already holding one. No thanks. I’m good. I’ve had enough already. Thanks, but no.

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?

Zelda does not, however, understand what she came up with for her writing assignment. She can merely reveal to you, Most Fashionable Reader, what she was doing whilst writing: watching an alarming documentary about compulsive hoarders on The Learning Channel (it is a true disorder! it gets worse as you get older! it is inherited! but, thankfully, drugs are being developed to treat it!); listening to Neutral Milk Hotel’s In the Aeroplane over the Sea (o glorious brilliance and light!); and playing Wrestler on Facebook (Zelda is quite addicted, Reader). These facts being more interesting than the actual exercise itself.

And now Zelda must respond to Fashionable Vivienne’s entry of a few days ago — the one in which Vivienne mentions “Blinded by the Light.” Zelda will confess that every time the song “Blinded by the Light” comes on the radio, her heart skips a beat, and the beat that is skipped is replaced with SHEER JOY. Not because of aforementioned song, of course, but because Zelda thinks that aforementioned song’s beginning is another song’s beginning — the other song being the most fabulous and fantastic “Disco Inferno.” Zelda always giggles when she thinks of “Disco Inferno,” Dear Reader, for, when she was in the ninth grade, one of her BFFs got into trouble during Study Hall because she was singing “Disco Inferno,” and this BFF had to write burn baby burn disco inferno burn baby burn one thousand times. So imagine for a moment, Fashionable Reader, Zelda’s dismay every time she realized that “Blinded by the Light” is not “Disco Inferno.”

Zelda has thoughtfully provided the video for “Disco Inferno” below. Do not be fooled by the first ten seconds of the video below, Dear Reader. After those ten seconds, there is Infinite Fashion that is comparable to the Fashion of the Most Fashionable Dolly Parton.

Handful of Dust

A ghostwoman with ashes incredibly frustrated. I still must dress the character. The milk jugs floating past those books I was going to write. This first draft is lifting her clothes still more and pissing on the jetties. This first draft is the eighteenwheeler across the street. This first draft is the Penthouse on the sleeperfloor. Lemonade. A paraplegic. Empty beercans in the cooler. The plumber with the BMW. A rosemary bush as big as an import. The nailpolish marinates beside the window unit. I dreamed for about twenty-nine years. It was the end of the day, and I had nothing.

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.