I have a little present for you, he said.
He smiled a little. Then he pulled open the top drawer of his desk and took something out. He held it a moment, casually enough, between thumb and finger, as if deciding whether or not to give it to me. Although it was upside-down from where I was sitting, I recognized it. They were once common enough. It was a magazine, a women’s magazine it looked like from the picture, a model on glossy paper, hair blown, neck scarfed, mouth lipsticked; the fall fashions. I thought such magazines had all been destroyed, but here was one, left over, in a Commander’s private study, where you’d least expect to find such a thing. He looked down at the model, who was right-side-up to him; he was still smiling, that wistful smile of his. It was a look you’d give to an almost extinct animal, at the zoo.
Staring at the magazine, as he dangled it before me like fish bait, I wanted it. I wanted it with a force that made the ends of my fingers ache. At the same time I saw this longing of mine as trivial and absurd, because I’d taken such magazines lightly enough once. I’d read them in dentists’ offices, and sometimes on planes; I’d bought them to take to hotel rooms, a device to fill in empty time while I was waiting for Luke. After I’d leafed through them I would throw them away, for they were infinitely discardable, and a day or two later I wouldn’t be able to remember what had been in them.
Though I remembered now. What was in them was promise. They dealt in transformations; they suggested an endless series of possibilities, extending like the reflections in two mirrors set facing one another, stretching on, replica after replica, to the vanishing point. They suggested one adventure after another, one wardrobe after another, one improvement after another, one man after another. They suggested rejuvenation, pain overcome and transcended, endless love. The real promise in them was immortality.
This was what he was holding, without knowing it. He riffled the pages. I felt myself leaning forward.
It’s an old one, he said, a curio of sorts. From the seventies, I think. A
Vogue. This like a wine connoisseur dropping a name. I thought you might like to look at it.
rachel lang by michael donovan. harness is possibly creepyyeha. it's not as ornate as their usual stuff, so maybe it's a well chosen piece from a highway bookstore (i.e. amazon.com). correction: wearing h.o.s. leather.
his video of avery tharp is password protected on vimeo and only available to the public as copies posted on porn sites. the latter probably led to the former. is a shame. a small example of how tumblr was ruined (though i know yahoo played a significant and separate role in that demise). boy do i hate pornography. on top of the direct harm it causes its creators and consumers, it's a worthless excuse for censorship.
arizona muse playing anna karina, rip. directed by alasdair mclellan for Self Service Magazine. i have this issue on my coffee table. trying to be less materialistic, but my collection of Lula and Self Service i cannot let go. hundreds of pounds of paper and ink.