from Letters to Kelly Clarkson
Torrid. One must always shoot a woman above the hip with her mouth
open. These are rules that are spoken — I mean, embodied — as steam
rises from the screen’s heat, or shavings from a horse’s hoof. I cannot
pretend to dress like you anymore; I am no Jennifer Jason Leigh and
you are no eyestar. In a mere four months we will elect our president,
our dom, two whole seasons before the next plague of star jasmine.
In one letter, Mina writes, “when inside is outside, every organ is a
messy eclipse,” and I feel that to be true, except on television. No
visible organs, no pumping oxygenated red or blue. Just various
colored waxes to affix to skin and I did not wear high heels until the
age of twenty-seven. Because the battle isn’t outside, I realized, as a
thousand windows were shutting across the city.