Reading Vogue, trying to swallow the elitist garbage fed to the masses like Jones town and a pool of Kool-Aid, is making me wonder what the hell happened. Where did the sense and sensibility of a journal meant to educate and illustrate what style could be, go so willfully wrong? I'm at a point where I'm not even angry any more. The 4 stages of grief are: denial, anger, acceptance and utter horror.
We are all guests at the wake for what once was a living breathing business. Every store in this town is a converted chapel where the grieving friends and families come to view the dearly departed. The bodies are beautifully arranged on racks, T-stands and shelves with expressions frozen. Only the most shattered of the grief stricken, actually touch the bodies ,weeping quietly. No one stays long, there's just a steady stream of people filing in and out. No one stays.
So many signs are staring us in the face that no matter how you crunch the numbers or measure the wind velocity, it keeps coming up unbalanced and dangerous. I hate doom and gloom stories. Believe it or not, I have a history and reputation among my closest friends of having an indomitable spirit of optimism. I never quit, never give up ,never believe that the end is the end or even close. For this reason, I'm letting my fears speak but not my true feelings. I still believe there is a future, ther's still hope that we'll find a way through the blackness....but the stench is making it increasingly more difficult to take deep breaths.
It's an "every man/woman/gay/transgender person for him/her/ he-she self" . The magazines which acted as road maps , compasses if you will have magnetic fields hopelessly compromised.
The more subversive publications like PURPLE or OPRAH give a clearer less biased message. Forget Bazaar, Town &Country or any of the others. It's a daisey chain of didacticism. Only is I don't buy it any more. They make good trash bag stuffers and kindling in the winter, and so -so litter biox liners , but not much else. Cultural reviews such as new books, plays, art and theater are of interest but that's where it begins and ends. You can get that information from other more informed publications which don't necessitate a bath after reading.
So my optimism sits quietly in the back row for the scene to change and give me a reason to be filled with a warm positive glow. Meanwhile the tissues are gripped tightly in my claws. They do double duty dabbing at errant tears and covering my too sensitive nose. I'm not budging til there is a sign of life or when they close the chapel for good. After all, it's Easter.....
Anything is possible.
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