Principessa patetica and her palace of losses
I was pregnant, and then I was not. Diva-antics and deliciousness, even while I’m wading through puddles of cold black dread...
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Life doesn’t exist inside language: too bad for me.
— Dodie Bellamy, Pink Steam
The question of creation. Sandalwood incense. Italian cigarette box. Caramel hard cardies in a glass bowl. Rainwater breaking through the ceiling. Gas heater running out of gas. Japanese whisky on the desk, I can’t touch it. Pot of coffee, it won’t last. Stale scent of yesterday’s cigarettes. My leopard print night dress: 2002 La Senza. I take mental stock of my offline surroundings just to get things started, to grab words for the page. Anaïs Nin’s Journals of Love are soothing. “I had quail and wild rice for lunch at Greenwich.” I’m drawn to indisputable minutiae. Hard, small details are fortifying. Light comes in through the dusty blinds—daily, consistent. Helps me tread the rushing river of time...
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