Emily relocated her book group to my house last night, so I was finally able to attend. We discussed a recent issue of Cabinet devoted to the theme of shame. Most of the discussion centered around shame and guilt; the distinction between the two, their manifestations, depictions and expressions. I was eager to talk about nudity and shame, but Emily kept steering us to the death of capitalism. Like she always does.
My Foreign Correspondent and I have become quite entranced with each other. We have yet to meet, as he’s still on another continent, but of the nearly 7 billion people to choose from, I can imagine loving no other. Suddenly everything that was out of sync with the men I’ve been dating is apparent: they weren’t he. He’s happy and sweet and smart and beautiful. My sense of irony is gone. Sincerity and cliché have settled over me. Meaning is different, it suddenly has location and focus. I’m dancing en pointe through a Botticelli landscape strewn with flowers and prancing putti, my pudgy paramour reaching to me from the clouds, my naked and suddenly slim again quattrocento body warmed by the light emanating from his divine stubbled face.