Storyshucker
I’m going to be dirty today.
As a kid, Mama often met me on the back stoop as I came in from playing outside. With a broom in her hand she’d have me slowly turn in a circle while she brushed dirt from my blue jeans. She wasn’t against sweeping my bare legs either if I happened to be wearing shorts.
“Don’t bring that mess in this house.” She’d say. “Did you plan to get dirty?”
Well no. I hadn’t planned to. I was a kid. There was dirt. We met and fell in love. The end.
I remembered that this morning as I thought about where to plant some things in the yard. I still love dirt. Not potting soil in shiny garden-center bags. I don’t care for the sterile smell of plastic and perlite. I love real dirt. Earth.
One of the finest smells of spring is that…
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Sarah Ditum
I learned to make lace when I was small, solemnly winding my bobbins with white thread then working over the pillow with deepest concentration – twisting and crossing the splints of wood, carefully weighted with scavenged beads, never learning so well that my hands could work without stumbling, but working all the same. I made my first few pieces, slack-tensioned and a little sloppy. My older female relatives and family friends inspected them indulgently but unimpressed. They were Bedfordshire women who had learned the needle arts at school, women who had been educated for domesticity, women who could not believe that I would leave school at 16 unable to knit, sew or make pastry. “I could make this,” my grandma would say, plucking the unhappy hems of my Topshop jumpers. “Didn’t they teach you anything?”
Their lives didn’t stop at what their education had fitted them for, though, because this…
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President Buhari welcomed by the Minister-President of the state of Bavaria, Mr Horst Seehofer
Refusing Fashion
Vogue Italia July/August 1988, cover shot by Steven Meisel
While looking at the newest issues of Vogue Italia online, I noticed that Steven Meisel was not credited for taking the cover photo. Now this is a shock to me, since Meisel has shot every cover of the Italian version of Vogue beginning in 1988.
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victordesilentio
He picks up the sheet of
paper and tries to read the
words and look into the present and
the future, stares through them. He is
on a beach, his wife a symbol of imperialism,
his daughter a symbol of mercy. He remembers,
with his mind, the blue wall behind his woman
when he first met her. Behind the wall were buildings and
there were clouds, covering the sky.
He wanted a wife when he was younger and
he wanted everything, for ancient kings to
live through him and ancient scribes
to see his life, look past his eyes.
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