There she is, a Feliniesque femme removing makeup on some phantom Isle of Women. Her beautiful white Chanel shoes are worn down, the soles that is, the area not readily visible to the common eye unless she kicks a leg in the air. And as she waits like he had begged her to, she does this; she kicks one leg in the air and breaks into a strange hybrid of a dance, something between a flamenco and an Irish jig. If Milly were an animal, she’d be a bull. Most definitely. Yes, a male cow. A quasi-satisfied bovine.
This quirky and oh-so-curvy lady, Milly, is considered a femme fatale by many of her admirers. Men and women who are fortunate enough to be well-acquainted with her exterior personae alone. The superficial. Masks she slaps onto her face, delicately, before a breathtaking entrance onto the wobbly, under-financed stage in a lauded theatre of much velvet, gold, and talent. She is in control during these moments, a queen showing off to her humble servants. She is the composer of her own sonata, the director of her own tragedy, and the teller of her own farce. Disembodied. Only the song, the cries, and the applause allow her to feel from a distance, a safe distance. And the men fall apart, like the fingers of roofs. Like they do with many women, when she IS the FANTASY, something that may be referred to in this story, albeit loosely, as I.F. Safety dwells there, in the wooden masks and transparent screens, or when the audience is guided to the middle of a forest at twilight for a hedonistic ritual performance by some of the more daring and avant-garde artists of the company; pagan-influenced shows during which the actors are puppets and strings conduct their undernourished bodies along lovers’ paths.
Fleeing is another option; nothing wrong with the random escape to Boise, Idaho or Toledo, Spain. A woman must always carry a getaway plan in her little pocket, her chic wallet, her hand (along with a photo ID and/or passport). Outlined routes, detailed cross-Atlantic maps; and if only Pangea still existed (ah, the possibilities then)!
Still. Something unusual unfolds tonight. Milly greases off her caked-on white face and peels off her blue eyelashes (the length of a baby’s arm). In an hour, she will reveal herself to a suitor who has pursued the femme for a solid, stoic year. The tales they’ve written to one another of fears, betrayals, the hope for a better day and better love, the conviction that there truly is a one and only for every human on this fuzzy planet, the funny dreams and haunts from the roots of night to the black holes above, buzzing in low octaves. Like galaxy poems. Trees without branches are still trees. And flowers without petals are still flowers, absolument. Those who have been de-hearted are still human; only lost, and mis-serviced. They still fight on, travel away, staying with acquaintances who’ve grown unabashedly fond of them. These fast friends from years ago, perhaps from an old job on Embassy Row before falling in love with the film industry, perhaps a near fatal run-in, human crash (which, to some, is nothing short of serendipitous) in an airport terminal in Zurich, perhaps a hallucinatory meeting at an alternative theatre in the wild woods of Sausalito, perhaps... The possibilities are maddening. Endless. Exciting. Painful in the end? Almost always. Almost.
The sorrow eventually makes room for laughter or consistent self-loathing. Or steady fluid flows of self-deprecation with the occasional giddy pause. And then one morning, while pouring steamed milk into your adorable little cup of coffee, your cat meows and you say something back, supply an answer (or several) to the feline’s question. You actually converse with the pleased snickadoodle! Not as one would with a child. As one would with another tax-despising, taxpaying, Clinton-era-loving colleague. As one would converse with an adult.
Self-deprecating muses for hire. Milly is absolutely convinced she is one of them. Yet she doesn’t mind; she walks onto the wobbly stage, high heels propelling her to the heavens, ruby-tipped fingers full of joy, hot light setting her face aglow, as the world of hands and eyes greets her with the adoration that comes with being in the moment. Temporary, but unconditionally complete.
