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lauren

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(3 | write on petals)

[06 Aug 2010|09:57pm]
i am an egyptian queen floating down the nile in my flat-bottomed golden boat with anubis at its head. all the men and women stare at me from behind their peacock fans, stare at my gold-dust skin, my almond eyes swirled in kohl, the glistening red jewels descending to my proud nose from beneath the heavy golden crown that hides my black hair, shining in the sunlight like a beam from heaven. i never smile.
i am a tang dynasty girl with bound lotus feet clad in tiny rose-colored shoes embroidered with pink and red beads, peony colors, good luck colors. i wish i could dance but my feet pain me so i walk slowly, like a woman three times my age, through the cherry-blossom orchard. there, my cousin whom i love fills my arms with branches covered in pale peach-colored blossoms and fresh green leaves. i am engaged to wed another man the next day, and i will die giving birth to his child before i ever see my cousin's black jet love-filled eyes again.
i am a mexican woman dancing like oshun, dancing like yemaya. i waggle my ass to the pound of the congo drums and i wear golden-yellow scarves like chrysanthemums, sea-green and -blue scarves embroidered with glass beads. my shoes are made of yellow flower petals and as i stomp and circle they fall off and wither beneath my dance. i gaze into mirrors with my peacock fan and i wear necklaces of shells and imagine myself with a bright-scaled fish's tail while i dance and all the men clap and call out my name in a blur of heavenly movement.
i am a nineteen-sixties model with a boy's haircut and dark eyeliner. i wear a bright red matching beret and wool peacoat set and i drive in a bentley with george harrison. we are in black and white, we are sharing a cigarette. i bury my face in his neck and his hair smells of weed and sweat, incense; comfort and salty guitar tears.
i am lady fuchsia. i take out my ruby earrings and place them next to the perfume bottle shaped like a swan, the pink glass bowl for the powder pouf. i pull the red velvet ribbon from my long dark curls. i tear off the princess' dress of scarlet satin and ruby beadwork and heavy velvet folds like wine-colored curtains. in my lace underthings ethereal as a ghost i open the window and dive out into the flooded courtyard, like a mermaid i bury myself beneath the roiling water.
who am i?

(write on petals)

[02 Nov 2009|01:23pm]
it's such a bittersweet pleasure to become enchanted & intoxicated by the language of a novel in translation.
especially in the case of yukio mishima, because i am so awestruck by his description of temples that i find it necessary to read the words aloud to myself but i am sure that it is still more exquisite, simultaneously sparse and effulgent, in japanese, which i will never learn. here is a des-esseintes-like aesthetic indulgence which i can almost touch but simply never shall.

(1 | write on petals)

[24 Mar 2008|08:03pm]
old postcards of cornwall!







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