fredag, mars 07, 2008

Where's the Auto in Autopsy?

I wish I could take myself apart and figure out what's wrong and put me back together again before I toxicology myself to death. It's so hard to be sick when there is no one around with the authority level to send you to bed. I treated myself to enough anti-symptom cocktails that something should be working, or my heart should be stopping.

Enough about me. I'm going to focus on another for a while. Chic, according to Cathy Horyn: "a particular or informed point of view that makes the heart leap or the mind curious to know more." I didn't know. When there is no chic, she continues, it's like sitting down to an expensive meal and not tasting a single flavor. Prada is fashion in the abstract, Versace and Gucci are about luxury. but nothing was produced that would make someone want to change the way they dressed.

Ok, I'm starting to get it. I think. Is chic a movement, a collective? I don't know, but I'm so congested that I'm breathing through my mouth. Liquid will begin to drip from my nose any second. My dry lips will swell without the aid of any injectible or bee sting. Then she says it, that thing I have been yelling at myself about for the past two months: know the emerging markets.

I'm not ethnic enough. I'm not worldly enough. I have no sense of Indian designs beyond a $10 wrap skirt I and every other girl bought in 1979, Or Chinese or Japanese. or the difference between the two.