Discovering sex was like discovering writing. It was powerful in a way couldn’t explain. Like writing, you had to go beyond the guilt and shame to get to anything good. Like writing, it could take you to deep and mysterious subterranean levels. With each new depth I found out things about myself I didn’t know I knew. And, like writing, for a slip of a moment it could be spiritual, the cosmos pivoting on a pin, could empty and fill you all at once like a Ganges, a Piazzolla tango, a tulip bending in the wind. I was no one, I was nothing, and I was everything in the universe little and large—twig, cloud, sky. How had this incredible energy been denied me!
Some writing doesn’t brush up against sentimentality as often as other writing. But whatever ‘bad’ edge your writing brushes up against, I think it’s important to touch it. You can always pull back from it, but at least you know where it is. It’s like when I was a dancer, we were always encouraged to fall in rehearsal, so that you could know what the tipping point of any given movement was. That way, when you did it on the stage, you could be sure you were taking it to the edge without falling on your face. It sounds like a cliché, but really it’s just physics — if you don’t touch the fulcrum, you’ll never gain a felt sense of it, and your movement will be impoverished for it.
I get so emotional thinking about my ideal outfits.
Like every time I picture my future self in a floor length white fur coat over a lingerie inspired little black dress and a leather harness I just get overwhelmed with feelings.
Unlike most women my age, getting my eyebrows done is a very recent thing for me. While all my friends in college lamented the fact that there was no truly great place in our area to get them waxed, I let my brows grow free and untamed. Every so often, I’d buy one of those pastel colored razors from the beauty supply store and at most shave the hairs in between that threatened to become a unibrow. On extremely special occasions, like if I was anticipating a young mans face being dangerously close to my own, I might also take off a little of the wispy hairs that grew beneath them. Otherwise it was au naturel, all the time.
Whenever I said I’d never had my eyebrows waxed, other women would look at me in horror. “It changes your face you know,” they said. “So you just let them keep growing?” I wanted to point out that they very rarely grew past my nose, so I wasn’t particularly concerned. “Are you just afraid of the pain?” they’d ask. “It doesn’t hurt at all, just one two! And it’s over.” I was offended by this last statement, because I was pretty sure I could take the pain of a little wax. I just didn’t want to.