Friday, January 7, 2011

Unbound: A Self Portrait (The New Yorker & fortune)


A slightly goofy-looking artist
Twenty something.
She is obsessed with sex and sass;
Studying friends and former lovers.
She can't feel; can't cry;
Can't think beyond language as a writer.
She tries to kill her heart with her cauterizing wit.

Inside her head there is always something beautiful.
A luminous, surreal world,
as lush and limpid as a dream
A dream of love.
Magical, whimsical and always thrilling.
She walks a tightrope between
reality and imaginative freedom.

Her broad shoulders and broad smile,
The most utterly lost of all days is
that on which she has not laughed.

Daring, gorgeous and outlandish
in that silent world.

This is what it is to love an artist.

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