hand jobs, butt jobs, book jobs.
from the desk of things flying across my feed lately…
…someone sent me this article about “hand lifts”. so frightening.
if you’re vain, it’s easy: black and white. up the contrast. bam. there’s an app for that!!!
but this piece on the new york times stirs a weird set of thoughts from me…
i think of how EMBARRASSED i was – and have remained – about wearing a ring.
[i don’t wear jewelry at all. sometimes for really fancy occasions or for photoshoots, but since high school when i was covered with piercings and crucifixes (crucifixii?) but for whatever reason, i just stopped.]
it’s a special ring (as one would hope most wedding rings are i suppose)…but in a different way. neil didn’t have a ring when he asked me to marry him, and a few days later my mother gave him a family heirloom (from my paternal grandmother). we used it as “an engagement ring”, recycled it as a prop wedding ring when we eloped, and i wear it most of the time. BUT, it makes me cringe a little bit because i’m not a jewelry wearer and the whole thing feels so totally Not Me and out of context.
The Ring and i have had a truly interesting dance for the past four years. I’ve noticed that i sometimes tilt it out of frame when taking selfies so it doesn’t look bling-y.
shame comes in all sizes.
some of the facebook comments have been…well…
some people are sharing photos and stories of their rings there…
on the tail of sharing that article, the cultural horrorshow continued, as @msjuliemars on twitter sent me this piece from VICE: vice.com/the-vice-report/buttloads-of-pain
it’s a long but fascinating read (and there’s a 17 minute video piece on it as well). i could use a few more spoonfuls of compassion – the article’s a bit snarky (and very funny), as tends to be what they strive for i suppose – but the underlying facts are absolutely as disturbing as can be…
…what are we indeed doing to ourselves?
i will use all this imagery in book-land today: i’ve made it my goal to cut 10,000 words today. lop ‘em off. kill them. a slaughterfield of words. i will be a plastic surgeon of paragraphs, sculpting them into oblivion. pounds of flesh and low-grade silicone and cement in the trash outside.
everything is one.
if you see me on the lower east side, hug me.