Hours at Hand

I really thought I wrote something called "Be My Muse" once. I stay up late, using old hairspray for varnish and a Barnes & Noble Music bag as a dropcloth.


I aspire to be someone who isn't unbeautiful. I've seen one bad picture of Gina ever. There's a girl with long cherry hair who plays serviceable hymns on the piano and has the most fabulous nose, like a glacier descending from her forehead. There's a substitute teacher who reminds me a little of Pocahontas and who told me to give TV on the Radio's new album a real listen. There was a boy in school today, looking down, silent, mysterious-looking in a suit and fedora. There was a friend of my brother's here with the skinniest torso and great strong fingers.

Models don't have to dress themselves and these days I hardly care. I thrill to the feeling I get opening Vogue - appreciation, admiration, bedazzlement, disbelief, suspension of the former, jealousy, wonder, ambition. Some late night last week I felt completely the part. My head's crown was suddenly as close to the ceiling as the hour hand of the clock, my bare feet sticking to pages torn from the Bible (September issue). I was on my fifth time through If You're Feeling Sinister in two days.

I cut girls' waists slimmer for effect, eat a lot of cake for the frosting, write myself notes on ripped-up bits of Chanel ads. It's the cheapest, the easiest, the lovliest glamour.

There’s a mouse in the cupboard that nibbles your crumbs,
And you talk to him every night
You say, “Hey, Mr. Whiskers, I’m bored and I’m numb,
You can stay if you just treat me right.”
- Bishop Allen, "The News From Your Bed"