We know what Able will be wearing when she's riding the waves this summer. At left, we see what I'll be donning for margarita-induced beach napping. Caftan optional.
January is the proper time to prepare for the beachgoing of our summer-futures. It's a good moment to juice and cabbage cleanse, a good moment to reinstitute one's exercise bulemia (five months of which will certainly do the trick). Visions of barbeques and bonfires and shoelessness and scanty clothing spirit me through the hunger hallucinations and overlong, uphill elliptical treks. And last night, I began a round of online swimwear window-shopping and well . . . I found that I liked something sort of atrocious: a plunging Ed Hardy one-piece, in all of its rhinestoned EuroTRASH, Hard Rock Hotel and Casino glory. Look here. And do click to enlarge.
Chanel Gold Fiction. I've gone down this gold nails route before (it was the color I chose for my very first manicure moons ago), and it doesn't look so good on me. But the name of this extra posh Chanel number is fantastic (companies should always relish the task of naming cosmetic shades). And since I've been going all English noblewoman and not wearing an ounce of jewelry, I feel my hands deserve a jolt of metal.
Besides being crazy-in-love with the socialist playwright hero (pictured above) of The Lives of Others (a German film I meant to see ages ago but finally got around to watching this past weekend) and moved by its narrative, I am nuts nuts nuts about the apartment that said playwright shares with his actress lady-love, and below I've embedded a clip of secret operatives bugging it. Of those available on the internets, it's the best for viewing the grand and careless wood-paneled (!!) space. But truly, watch the film. It's lovely, and one gets the full measure of this apartment by viewing the whole. I found myself so enamored of the things on their walls, in and out of focus (and reality). It's sent me into such a crisis about ugliness (and POOR taste) in New York.
This has been quite a morning--the climax: President Obama's address, a stirring, ORATORICAL (finally) cry for D-I-G-N-I-T-Y (word!). The very air was singing. Everyone looked gorgeous! I had some favorites . . . Obviously, the Obama clan cut a figure in bright bright brights. I was all aflutter to see old H.W. (I have a long-harbored soft spot for papa Bush) in that yellow cashmere turtle neck, royal purple scarf, and smart beaver hat. The crowd cheered almost as heartily for 42 and the Missus (Missus Secretary of State, that is) as they did for the man of the hour. Yes, there was a grey flannel bow up on Queen Aretha's head. And Dick Cheney was in a wheelchair, cue unabashed laughter at handicapped old man! They say he pulled a muscle while moving boxes into his new home. I say he pulled a muscle while playing The Most Dangerous Game on a remote isle with Delta Burke's husband. And, not to go on and on about Republicans (though being the dark boozers that we are at A&P, we yearn to go to some GOP parties tonight to drink really fine scotch with well-coifed, crestfallen men), but wasn't Jenna Bush's husband, Henry Hager, just a stone fox in his camel overcoat (I know you're with me, Pillow). Oh happy day!
I am not a full stop fan of limousines, but this Caddie that the Obamas are sporting today--c'est magnifique!
Islands Number Four
1.
Agnes Martin, Islands Number Four,
Repeated ovals on a grid, what appears
To be perfect is handmade, disturbed.
Tobacco brown saturates canvas to burlap,
Clean form from a distance, up close, her hand.
All wrack and bramble to oval and grid.
Hollows in the body, containers for grief.
What looks to be perfect is not perfect.
Odd oval portholes that flood with light.
2.
Description of a Slave Ship, 1789:
Same imperfect ovals, calligraphic hand.
At a distance, pattern. Up close, bodies
Doubled and doubled, serried and stacked
In the manner of galleries in a church,
In full ships on their sides or on each other.
Isle of woe, two-by-two, spoon-fashion,
Not unfrequently found dead in the morning.
Slave ships, the not pure, imperfect ovals,
Portholes through which they would never see home,
The flesh rubbed off their shoulders, elbows, hips.
Barracoon, sarcophagus, indestructible grief
Nesting in the hollows of the abdomen.
The slave ship empty, its cargo landed
And sold for twelve ounces of gold apiece
Or gone overboard. Islands. Aftermath.
