writing letters because except for Poe writing seems like the big lie. People can write anything. You should see my mother’s letters. What have I been doing? Nothing much. Hanging out in transvestite bars and fucking strangers. I’m a real tramp now. Grace paused. That’ll just kill her, she thought. “If Grace doesn’t answer my letters,” Ruth announced to her husband, “I won’t write her either.” Ruth’s handwriting was neat, but filled with little flourishes that made her think penmanship class was worth it. The prose was well-formed and affectionate, presenting none of the anger she usually displayed. It was one of those things that Grace hated most about her mother’s letters, how phony they were, and bringing one out of her bag, she brandished it at Mark, evidence of treason. “She’s trying to be nice,” he offered lamely, hating his own mother, feeling he shouldn’t. They were at a party given by a much older rich man for his young designer lover. “Designing,” Mark hissed. Grace was the only girl. She’d never seen so many men in suits dancing with men in suits. “Think of it as a tableau vivant,” Mark went on. Different images do provoke different thoughts. She sat on a crimson velvet love seat and smoked cigarette after cigarette. The white silk curtains were a makeshift screen for porn movies. One of the porn stars, who was supposed to be the postman, looked something like dead President Kennedy, a thought she imagined might be a sin. The host sat down by her side and began a discussion with her on the state of the theater about which she had no opinions, and art films, about which she had some, steering the discussion to horror films, to Hitchcock. They settled on
My Sister, My Love
, a Swedish art house/porn film both had seen and whose incest theme enthralled Grace. Remember the brother and sister lying in bed, almost in state. What about the scene in the tavern when the old woman lifts her skirt to piss, right there in front of that little boy. The host talked about the film’s rustic nature, its sets; Grace slipped, saying flesh for theme. The host used his body as a barrier, practically moving in front of her as he spoke, the porn racing along behind him. From her point of view his bald head looked as if it was in the film, another cast member, or occasionally a bluish image was reflected off it. Later she would think of him as a weird football player. Even though he was trying awfully hard to entertain her, as well as block shots of erections and come shooting into the air, all at the same time, Grace was, against her stubborn will, uncomfortable. She felt invisible. She rose suddenly and said she had to go. He talked her to the door, not allowing her to look back. He kept her hand firmly in his and whispered as she put her coat on, “Let’s get together for some good clean fun.”
The host didn’t know how drawn Grace was to the dark side, the B side, the bad and the beautiful. Early bewitched by Patty McCormack in
The Bad Seed
, while her friends were terrified, Grace saw every scary movie she could, holding her breath and waiting. She wanted more than surprise and hardly ever got really frightened. “Have we got a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because we understand it to be such?…To do wrong for wrong’s sake only…” Poe’s understanding soothed Grace. That female singer had looked at her. Grace switched the radio on. “I’ll do anything that you want me to. I’m your puppet.” But in “The Black Cat” the main character does get punished, found out. What’s sin without exposure. It’s the chance you take. I want to violate the Law, she mugged in her best Bela Lugosi imitation to the mirror that hung near her bed, so that she didn’t have to get off the bed to look at herself.
Out the window she could see the tops of houses on Benefit Street. Benefit. Providence. Bringing her knees close to
My Sister, My Love
, a Swedish art house/porn film both had seen and whose incest theme enthralled Grace. Remember the brother and sister lying in bed, almost in state. What about the scene in the tavern when the old woman lifts her skirt to piss, right there in front of that little boy. The host talked about the film’s rustic nature, its sets; Grace slipped, saying flesh for theme. The host used his body as a barrier, practically moving in front of her as he spoke, the porn racing along behind him. From her point of view his bald head looked as if it was in the film, another cast member, or occasionally a bluish image was reflected off it. Later she would think of him as a weird football player. Even though he was trying awfully hard to entertain her, as well as block shots of erections and come shooting into the air, all at the same time, Grace was, against her stubborn will, uncomfortable. She felt invisible. She rose suddenly and said she had to go. He talked her to the door, not allowing her to look back. He kept her hand firmly in his and whispered as she put her coat on, “Let’s get together for some good clean fun.”
The host didn’t know how drawn Grace was to the dark side, the B side, the bad and the beautiful. Early bewitched by Patty McCormack in
The Bad Seed
, while her friends were terrified, Grace saw every scary movie she could, holding her breath and waiting. She wanted more than surprise and hardly ever got really frightened. “Have we got a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because we understand it to be such?…To do wrong for wrong’s sake only…” Poe’s understanding soothed Grace. That female singer had looked at her. Grace switched the radio on. “I’ll do anything that you want me to. I’m your puppet.” But in “The Black Cat” the main character does get punished, found out. What’s sin without exposure. It’s the chance you take. I want to violate the Law, she mugged in her best Bela Lugosi imitation to the mirror that hung near her bed, so that she didn’t have to get off the bed to look at herself.
Out the window she could see the tops of houses on Benefit Street. Benefit. Providence. Bringing her knees close to
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