Thu, 19 May 2005

dead in the eyes
After ninety thousand dollars in plastic surgery, Katrina no longer resembled her mother in any way. The graft and tuck and cut left her carriage at different weights, so as to change her gait and measurements, freeing her to rethink her choice of clothing, after post-operational imprinting as to splints leading her towards tight-fitting dresses, later leading to a fetish for corsets, a wasp-goddess variant on each seeming definition of her genetic makeup. Katrina sold her home, her cars, and the last of the land, rebuilding herself away from the open spaces of her Savannah childhood into a cloistered hermitude similar in nature (but not in detail, or in intent) to Saint Jerome. She set about filling the vast gaps in her cultural memory, lining the walls of her dark apartment (blackout curtains, 60 watt lamps) with the Western canon and various detours (Imagist poets, Laotian pornographic manuals, Spinoza), whcih she studied late into the morning, free of the chattering distractions of telephone and television and visitors. She would leave, for short stints in the world, and they would stare at her, awed and humbled, while she bought milk and tea and carrots. No one would ever guess at what she once was, Katrina thought, and smiled as she stepped out into the day.
(12:23.05.19.2005) [/scrytch] #