I just put 300 Christmas lights (so cheap off season!) on a tree that’s barely three feet high. If I look at it and then look away quickly, little dots swim across my field of vision. It’s pretty excellent. In other news, the lady across the street keeps her blinds about twelve inches raised, so that when she’s just out of the shower and her lights are on, I can see the swath of her upper thigh to her lower abdomen, and her pubic hair is a wild, distracting show. It’s like the classic ’70s pubic hair that you just don’t see anymore.
The Brazilian bikini wax craze has had a really pervasive and detrimental effect on vaginas. This kind of thing is a rare occurrence.
Needless to say, I’m tremendously visually inspired right now. What’s new with you?
(Don’t tell mom about the tree.)
I would never tell.
I need to figure out my life. 35 is a deadline, because the distance between 35 and 50 is essentially two years.
(And by the time you’re 40, your career needs to be established. I remember 55 year olds who would wander into the photography center when I worked there. Starting their life as artists at that age— not good. They smelled of lavender and the Larchmont.)
I should have just told them it was too late, but instead I took their money and pointed them to the color lab. Which is now of course obsolete, itself.
We’re not old. It’s all just beginning to crystallize. I look at my students, who are so clueless, and thank god I'm no longer nineteen. Today I had to explain to most of my English Lit I section who Virginia Woolf was. Help me out, High School English teachers! The kids they’re sending me are so half-formed.