So I’ve decided it’s time to try and land a husband. Does anyone have any tips? I’ve been doing my best to memorize the Social Issues Resource Centre’s Guide to Flirting, but I’m not sure about what other sorts of presentation I should go for. The ceremonial make-up for instance. It’s all well and good to know which direction to tilt your eyes, but if I don’t know what colours to paint them, what good will it do me? Where do you go to learn that stuff? Are there courses? Or is a mother-daughter kind of thing? Or should I go to a priest? The rabbit fur brushes felt heavenly soft, but I took a peek at an eye-lash curler in the temple this morning, damn thing looked like a torture instrument from a high school play, too over-the-top to take seriously. And then there’s clothes. Always clothes. They’re such a riot of language. What best says, “I’m responsible, but a minx in the sack”? I’d hate to come across the wrong way with a bit of mis-placed plaid. It’s like skirts, all the holy books say that short skirts are effective skirts, but how do you keep your knees from freezing?
My band played a stadium for the first time last night. It was great! We Totally Rocked. Standing up there, looking at all the people… Rabbit hole! Rabbit hole! I felt a shared sense of risk and trust, as though everything felt perpetually threatened, like everything might crack, but everyone was comfortable with it, had accepted it. Effing magical. And the gig! Judith, our new contortionist, was fantastic, ripping solos out with only her toes!! Bam! Totally unscripted! Right to the eyes! Our choreographer pitched a fit, but whatever.
I woke suddenly this morning from dead monochrome dreams of smooth, terrifying men without fur. My children were still asleep, curled like rabbits in the hollows of my body, but I lay there awake, staring at the curved arch of my ceiling, trying to calm myself down. I’m supposed to be plugging into the collaborative network at night, but lately, I just haven’t been feeling up to it. Since Elsei was born, the piped in psycho-sedatives just haven’t been as fun.
Anyway, the merciless faces of these men were so strange that I wish I had better skill with a stylus, so I could show you. There was no emotional awareness at all, but they were devastating, utterly irresistible. Instead of soft black noses, they had fleshy beaks, like fish might if they’ve been stretched over a rack, and their eyes were odd, little wet globes pushed into their faces like marbles into clay. It was dazzling, how stark they looked, how blinding, as if they were a pivot from which something heavy could swing, industrial, heavy, and cold.