Let the wild rompus start
We’re having a little shin-dig at the end of the month. A party before we’re sent home for fall holidays. It’s supposed to be a black and white ball, very formal.
I’m guessing the sophistication will last only a little past ten. Then the halls will fill with a slur of mauraudering, drunken lost boys and their lip stick smeared conquests for the night. There will be vodka and stolen kisses mingled amongst foliage decorations and mistletoe above the archways (even though it’s a little early for christmas). There might even be snow.
Even though I know the formalities will be ignored and the guest list is a compilation of ignoramuses, I want to do something special.
I’m sewing a white dress, thin as faun’s lashes and beaded sparsely like the ground after first snowfall. I have a faux rabbit shawl to wear with it, also white, also bare. I’m sure I’ll be freezing.
There’s a passage from a Chelsea Jade song that inspired me, “But we sank into our rituals and sewed ourselves in prose. We sat inside our cardboard homes leaving only once it snowed (when nothing grows) Knitting secrets into sweaters to keep our shaky conscience warm. And its just a shame when we’re together I still feel so alone.”
So I’m sewing little bits of my journal in tiny, silken stitches to the dress. It’s spider-fine lace to begin with and I’m mixing my thoughts amongst the spirals. I etched a fine heart into the chest and outlined seven ribs along the bodice. There are endless nerve endings and vertebrae and white blood cells of prose and no one can really see them but I can feel the little scratches their extra thread leaves on my skin, trailing against my naked stomach, poking from the underside of the slip-less dress.
It’s like reading brail: almost impossible to see but if one was to run his fingers the length of my spine he’d be able to read the words I’ve hidden there.
