Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Where there's smoke

The weather forecasts talk about thunderstorms when mother steps into my room, her skin tone noticeably lighter than usual. "Frank is coming to dinner" she says. "Try to behave". She spends the rest of the afternoon nervously walking around the apartment in heels, changing her jewelry every half hour while loudly talking to herself as if to another person. "Does this look right? Yes. No. Yes. Yes."

Chloe has just returned from work when the doorbell rings, mother's face a nuance of pale that accentuates her Rouge Coco lipstick (#10 Camélia). With that bone white Moschino dress from the early 90s she really does look fabulous, like a movie star just before the drug addictions.

And Frank, there's something about the way he looks at me from across the table, I can't put it into words but he's tidier than the last time I saw him. Mother serves a stuffed bird and talks about how they met at a Who concert in 1979, but I get the feeling there's more to the story. The subtle tremble in her voice gives her away, I look at Chloe looking at me. She feels it too.


Saturday, June 2, 2012

The Misfits

Friday was Marilyn's birthday, we celebrated by watching old Hollywood movies and eating pink frosted cupcakes in bed. Chloe looks more like her even though I'm the blonde, she has that enigmatic charisma you never want to see getting poisoned and destroyed by mean-spirited people.

"The world", she says, "was never shaped by reason or truth but by delusions. How else could Rick Santorum almost become president of the United States?"

Maybe it's true. Escaping reality can sometimes seem like the only way of surviving, of not going mad or become completely paralyzed with sadness.

Chloe flips through the pages of David Wills' photo book Metamorphosis. "Imagine someone like Jessica Simpson today" she sighs, "wearing a sheer rhinestone dress with nothing underneath while singing 'Happy birthday Mr. President' to Obama. The horror".

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