In Memory of the Late Mr. and Mrs. Comfort

Speechless.

The Genealogy of Style

In Memory of the Late Mr. and Mrs. Comfort, a fable by Richard Avedon.  Featuring model Nadja Auermann and a friendly skeleton companion, originally appearing in The New Yorker, November 6, 1995.

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Tick goes tock

Dear 2018,

You have been one year full of changes and growth. I have lived the pain of letting go, the warmth of being with, the joys of achievements, the despair of the unknown.

2019, whatever you bring, let me reach up high, let my wings open wide, let me stoop and soar and, through it all, let my roots grow deep and my leaves grow green to welcome any being to my evolving core.

A long journey lies ahead and the most important thing is that I’m on it. May I rest when I am tired, may I be humble and compassionate with myself and those around me, may I ground myself in the here and now. Welcome, 2019.

Wishing you all an enriching 2019! Remember, you are not alone.

With love,

Nacre

Cheers…to us.

Never before

has music flicked

so rapidly

so personally

silenced

yet booming

my ears to deafness.

I stand naked

on display

in a vase of blood

on your dining table.

It doesn’t drip,

only flows

uninterrupted

to my nails,

beneath my feet.

Skies of blue

keep me upright

Sunflowers

keep me safe…

I have

officially

lost the plot

and so I cup blood

in both hands

and I drink.

Who wants to live forever?

My hands are sifting

through layers and layers

of thick black soot.

.

Patches of my body

are adorned

with its fine grains,

while the coarse ones

pressure against my ribs,

willing them into skeletal form.

.

Who am I?

Who was I?

Already forgotten

for who I was?

To be remembered by none?

.

Such a violent death,

that was,

such a violent death.

What of

this being’s becoming?

Does it even matter

anymore?

A demonic justice

I was 20

when it all began

in a room exhibiting

queer art,

9 sitting in a circle

on the hard cold floor.

Guided only by time,

it grew on us all

and soon we were counting

the years of its existence till,

one dusk,

I gave it all up

with the urgency by which

one frantically claws

at leeches

at his throat.

Anger ensued –

by how many I will never know

and I withdrew and lay,

the sea’s waves lapping

at my whole being,

not quite sure at which end

I was at.

I watched ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ today

and rage flushed over me

theirs and my own for

what I had given up

was family

and I had failed to recognise that.

In that moment

in front of the screen

I  wondered

had I put down the phone

and left the demons to deliver

their own justice,

what life would I be living now?