Vivienne Apologizes in Advance

My dearest and most loveliest, most Fashionable Friends of Fashion, Vivienne might have a lapse.  My Fashionable Friends of Fashion, you are probably thinking to yourself, Lord, Vivienne’s already lapsed.  So I clarify: a lapse in posting.  I am about to depart on a Fashionable Road Trip of Fashion, and though my destination is not VEGAS, I can assure you that there will be many non-sequiturs, many self-centered comments, many empty pizza boxes, many bottles of Maker’s Mark, and many stolen bottles of various hotel products.  I shall miss you, and promise mad OuLiPo upon my return.

And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers!

One might be able to tell from the title of this post that Viv is back to her old self.  Well, though, not quite.  Not quite.  Viv is not quite back to her old self.  The Angst Mines are not completely back in operation, but the Angst Miners have realized now that their holiday was short-lived, as a definite possibility for the discovery of new underground stores of Angst has emerged, and though they are still whistling, it is a different tune — a happy tune with a hint of sadness, a hint of regret, a hint of the sense that happiness is really, after all, just the absence of the Complete and Utter Bone Chomping Despair that causes one to bum cigarettes from undergraduates and lie in the floor with an ash tray (which looks suspiciously like a bust of Joan Crawford) balanced on your chest while listening to Eliot Smith’s “Condor Avenue” over and over on repeat.  The Angst Miners are not yet whistling “Condor Avenue,” though, or even “Waltz XO,” but “Happy Days Are Here Again” by the luminous vocal virtuoso Barbara Streisand.  And there is hope, here, as Barbara Streisand herself would later become the kind and benevolent Dr. Lowenstein, who would teach us to embrace our grief, to cry, to love, goddamn it, to love.

But before we learn to love, this: cognitive dissonance (though sometimes Vivienne wonders if learning to love is not, in fact, learning to accept — or, in her Moments of Angst, ignore — cognitive dissonance).  An explanation of this rambling: so, we all think we know who we are, right?  Or, at least, we all see ourselves as a certain person.  What causes a problem — what causes the cognitive dissonance — is when we’re forced to realize that other people do not see us as the people we think we are.  To wit: Vivienne has, upon occasion, been dragged, after multiple shots of tequila, to a Dance Club.  After multiple shots of tequila, Vivienne has taken it upon herself to dance.  And, under the influence of said tequila, Vivienne has thought she was a damn good dancer.  A solid gold dancer.  A pure solid gold wonder of dancing technology.  Vivienne has, through her tequila-blurred eyes, seen people staring at her, and assumed they are admiring her solid freaking gold dancing skills.  And then Vivienne has realized that they are laughing, because they do not see her as a solid freaking gold dancer, but instead as an octopus pulled from the water and left to thrash its ungainly limbs upon the dance floor.  To wit the second: Vivienne has, in conversation with those dear to her, sometimes realized that they do not see her as she sees herself.  Vivienne has, in fact, realized that she is very definitely playing A Role in their lives, and that who she is, actually, really, makes very little difference at all.  Dissonance.  Which leads me to this point, where I get all meta on you: you are a text constantly re-envisioned through the eyes of other authors.  The world is OuLiPo, and OuLiPo is the world.  We are trapped in a labyrinth of our own making, and we will never escape because we will never be able to see others as they see themselves, and vice versa.

Vivienne is now amazed at how quickly that crashed down into hopeless desperation, and would like to make up for that with this:

And with this!  My OuLiPoPoem for the evening.  The restriction I used was homoconsonantism, in which the sequence of consonants is kept and all of the vowels replaced.  I have provided 8 variations on the line “Foul is fair and fair is foul.”  Because if nothing else is true, that is.  And, of course, lollipops.  Gum drops.  Kittens with sweaters on.  Kittens with sweaters on.  Kittens with sweaters on.

The Murdering Ministers Speak

Fair sofa! Lay, undo if she fear.
Free — so feel need of sea fare.

For so flood need of sad for
far sea. Feel. Nod if so far.

Fee raise: of land, of sea, of ore.
Of “or:” see file, and, if. See fear,

firs, oaf, lend. Of “safer:”
far, ease, flee, undo, ifs, free.

A bust of Joan Crawford that looks suspiciously like an ashtray.

[A preface: Dearest, Most Fashionable Reader: Zelda is very pleased and very excited tonight, for, earlier in the evening, Most Fashionable Vivienne of Fashion listened as Zelda recounted an occurrence that had occurred earlier in the week. When Zelda finished recounting, Vivienne bestowed upon Zelda great and wise knowledge of benevolence, goodwill, and fashion. Vivienne revealed that the occurrence that Zelda recounted was not, in fact, an occurrence at all, but that it was, in fact, a beautiful and benevolent mystical vision sent to Zelda by the beautiful and benevolent Anne Carson. Zelda must wait and let the meaning of the beautiful and benevolent vision settle in her mind before she reveals it to you, Most Fashionable Reader. This means that Zelda will write about it tomorrow. But O! The joy! Thank you, Wise and Fashionable Vivienne, Vessel of Fashion! Thank you!]

Now. Zelda is trying to push herself out of her comfort zone. This means that Zelda is becoming more open to doing things that Zelda wouldn’t normally do. So when a Fashionable Friend of Zelda’s invited Zelda to take a class with her, Zelda jumped at the chance. Now this class is not just any class, Dear Reader. This class is a Class of Fashion. This class, Dear Reader, is a Pottery Class. Both Zelda and her Fashionable Friend have admitted that they envision themselves looking like Demi Moore in Ghost, fashionably crafting Wares of Fashion in Fashionable Overalls at the Fashionable Potter’s Wheel while the Righteous Brothers serenade them ever-so-softly.

Now, Zelda realizes that, instead of looking like Demi Moore, she will most likely look like Charlize Theron did in Monster, but even that does not deter her! She knows that, no matter what she looks like at that Fashionable Potter’s Wheel of Fashion, she will walk out of that pottery class with Useful and Fashionable Wares, such as an ashtray that looks vaguely like an ashtray, an ashtray that looks vaguely like a vase, a coffee mug that shares many of the same characteristics as an ashtray, and a bust of the Fashionable Joan Crawford that looks suspiciously like an ashtray. Zelda is incredibly excited!

Oh yeah! The poem!

For this poem, Most Fashionable Reader, I have, as best I can, followed the example of Harry Mathew’s 35 Variations on a Theme from Shakespeare. Due to time constraints, I had to limit my number of variations to thirteen. My source text comes from Ovid:

I love him but I cannot seem to find him.

The Well-Read Reader of Fashion will know that the text comes from the story of Narcissus, and that when Narcissus says, “I love him but I cannot seem to find him,” he is actually speaking of himself, not his beloved in a biblical sense. I say, however, that when we search for our beloveds, aren’t we searching for ourselves as well? So in my poem for the evening, the speaker is actually searching for her beloved. My variations are as follows: 1 Lipogram in i; 2 Lipogram in c, d, f, g, j, k, l, m, p, v, w, x, y, z; 3 Snowball; 4 Lipogram in a; 5 Anagram; 6 Lipogram in e; 7 Missing letter; 8 Emphasis; 9 Another point of view; 10 Double curtailing; 11 Subtle insight; 12 Amplification; 13 Interrogative mode.

13 Variations on a Line from Ovid

1
Love the man, and look for the man.

2
I restrain him. Then I see to him.

3
I am the lone woman, taking moments whenever necessary.

4
I love him — then I lose him.

5
Don a mind font. Hit his vile ocean mime.

6
Fuck him, and by morning, the man is missing.

7
I love him, and I cannot see to find him.

8
I love him, you see. He’s the object of my affection, the last Hot Tamale in the box, the one I’ve lost my sugarcoated heart to, the one I long for when the night begins. I love him and I cannot seem to find him — he, the catamaran on the horizon, the pelican that flew past the rotting pier. He disappeared like a twenty from a back pocket, a lighter from a purse. What I’m really trying to say, I suppose, is this: love and loss can be found in the same sentence quite often.

9
Then try another bar, ya dumb broad!

10
I love, and I cannot.

11
Love, my friends, is merely a journey.

12
When one loves another, much time is spent searching.

13
If love is loss, then what is hate?