jolie laide: At the airport

jolie laide

I started this when I lived in Brooklyn and struggled for grace in a city that grants moments of beauty and ugliness breathtakingly close to one another. Now I live in a place where things are a different kind of ugly and the beauty is pedestrian. I struggle with that.


At the airport

Far off lights glittering under a scudding sky.

I am in line in the bathroom before the flight. All I really want to do is take off my bra. So I do. The other women in line turn their flat eyes to me in the long mirror. There is nothing interesting in this shuffling shit hole.

Architecture of convenience, all made to keep you moving. Concrete, harsh light, chairs for twenty minutes.

I am used to seeing beat down and voided from the places I have lived, from the places I work. Here, with the expectation of travel, reuniting, adventure, I don’t expect it. The well-kept have a frosted blankness, or a twitching grinding agitation, or an overfed bovinity. I don’t want to talk to any of these people, I don’t want to hear any of their stories.


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