(no subject)
thursday she wears a blood red kimono top. nan says: "i shouldn't wear this for the pictures, if i had known you were going to be here, you'd've seen me in my conservative suit." blonde, bright, sharp like the vorpal blade. knows politics. looks at me in the mirror as i photograph her putting on make up, her colleagues moving on the left side of the frame.
"the midwest is a gaping political maw," i say. "everyone's in the middle of the road; it's good to wear the kimono, it's good to be a liberal. thank god someone is."
she mirror winks at me. "you're right."
out in the studio with her fellow panelists, someone compliments her on the kimono, says that it's very unconventional, unconservative. "it's good not to be middle-of-the-road," she enunciates deeply. "andrea? are you out there?" she peers for me as the audience files in; i don't answer, not really. i can see her on the monitor ten feet away, one hand shielding her eyes like she's looking bright into the summer sun. i've gone to the back of the room, i don't know why really except to be out of the light and far enough away to frame things up inside. "andrea, you told me right -- it's good not to be in the middle of the road," she calls out into the dark.
the streets bled kimono red tonight: it rained and poured and rained some more, snow and salt and grime melting and sticking to every shining surface like wet, peeling snakeskin. like perfect shining apple peels, kimono red and sodium vapor orange mix like sunset and the eternal river.
oh, the perfidy of men.
they found her shot dead in her bedroom tonight, five days after i photographed her.
all of my photographs trail off and never ---
"the midwest is a gaping political maw," i say. "everyone's in the middle of the road; it's good to wear the kimono, it's good to be a liberal. thank god someone is."
she mirror winks at me. "you're right."
out in the studio with her fellow panelists, someone compliments her on the kimono, says that it's very unconventional, unconservative. "it's good not to be middle-of-the-road," she enunciates deeply. "andrea? are you out there?" she peers for me as the audience files in; i don't answer, not really. i can see her on the monitor ten feet away, one hand shielding her eyes like she's looking bright into the summer sun. i've gone to the back of the room, i don't know why really except to be out of the light and far enough away to frame things up inside. "andrea, you told me right -- it's good not to be in the middle of the road," she calls out into the dark.
the streets bled kimono red tonight: it rained and poured and rained some more, snow and salt and grime melting and sticking to every shining surface like wet, peeling snakeskin. like perfect shining apple peels, kimono red and sodium vapor orange mix like sunset and the eternal river.
oh, the perfidy of men.
they found her shot dead in her bedroom tonight, five days after i photographed her.
all of my photographs trail off and never ---