The question posed an empty chair. The author's privilege lies in the ability to stand outside the frame. Is this about me or him?

*

Clouds weigh too much today. Planes coming. People leaving. An old copy of The Story of O. The fear of terror is constant and multi-faceted. The color of my eyes:  a cumulus. 

*

I left my phone in the seatback pocket of Southwest flight to Chicago. After waking up from a dream about the Paris attacks. Then remembering the chaos of September 11th in DC. Feeling sick. It was Friday the 13th, a pop culture scenario. Terrorists are so modern-- chasing secular superstitions on which to lean. As if God gives a flying fuck about Friday the 13th or its sequels.

Posture is a pose that suits the clothes. We select based on what we plan to feel, perform. Anything on Sunday might turn opera.Baroque, rococo-- a hectic harmony. The harmonium.

Mary McCarthy calls memory "a property of mind." Art is made when object of memory is converted by an act of imagination into something present. Her orphan childhood.

In her writing, characters and places grounded by sensations. It is the feeling that forms the memory. Dreams replaced thought and fantasy replaced understanding. Life imbued with mystery. Dreams as a defense mechanism for the stranded child.

Conventions of hiding: "... the true self, like the poor relative, must be taught to keep his distance."

Her mea culpa about fusing two memories-- what occurred and what was written, "...the literary truth had usurped the {actual truth].." (Brightman, 32) The impostor is carried away by her own performance, and elation replaces fear. Giving up her Catholic faith. End of hope for resolution to absent parents.

I've always wondered what Lawrence meant by this. "Chirpy" is almost kin to "stirrup" here. 

*

The mention of Mom at odd intersections, junctures between chocolate and winter coats. The winter coats she purchased for the girls. Red wool dress coats with black velvet collars, a vestige of elegant and the fear that the girls will grow, outgrow the memories of her nurture and care. This world we walk into, soldered. The sundriness of year-old grief.