in love with a (strict machine)

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Seven,

I think you met your goal with your sketches. I feel like I should offer you something back, so I've enclosed some snapshots of the skeleton of my latest runway piece and a few scraps of the fabric I've been using for it. It's nowhere near finished. Look at it, and then try and picture the entire left side of it coming undone at the seam, with strips of the same material posed like stuffing. I think it's entirely stupid to be disappointed with potraits however, unless you've comissioned them to be done in a certain way, and even then, what's the point of it? Art isn't about reality, as much as it is about creation in general. Whether than pairs up with reality, or visions of reality, or anyone else's interpretation is really a moot point. I would have told her to paint herself if she was so unhappy with them.

Thank you for the napkin with the drawing. I hung it on my refrigerator, like a proud parent, but mostly because that's where I store all my fruit. I found this great recipe for fruit dip, or something, and I tried my hand at it. It was really just a lot of mixing. Cream cheese and yogurt and stuff like that. So I put it all together and had a big huge bowl of it, with pineapple, thanks to your drawing.

My favorite color changes with time. It used to be black. I used to wear black all the time, like some widow in mourning. But right now, I think I've moved up a step to dark reds or dark purples. I like to use red in my pieces. Subtly, as undertones. There's going to be a layer of red under the white of the new gown, so that I can tear a design into it and let the red show through. Does that make sense?

Lucy

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Seven,

Maybe it was less of owing you something and more of wanting to give something in return. I believe in reciprocity, even though some might call me greedy and selfish. Maybe I am. I'll let you decide.

A broken heart for the wear. I like that phrase. I might incorporate it somehow. I've got an idea of what I want the main graphic on the front of the dress to be. I'll let you see it once it starts to take shape.

I have a life that's mine. I live in an apartment that used to belong to a friend of mine, before he moved in with his boyfriend. I have an ex-husband, or will have as soon as papers go through. I have a woman who I feel like is a missing part of me. I want change and excitement. I want to live in a state of life where I can never be bored, even if things don't change. I want to be appreciative and less critical. I want something new. Even if it's old and worn. I want it to be new to me. And I don't mean materialistic things. I mean just something monumental. An event. I want to be moved. I want someone, or something to move me.

What about you? What do you want?

Lucy

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Seven,

Your friends sound wonderful. They sound like the kind of friends I'd like to have, who don't panic if you disappear, who know you so thoroughly that they're nearly certain you'll turn up again, even if you aren't that sure. I feel like my friends are always trying to make sure I don't disappear like smoke, so they're either completely ignoring me, or hovering over so close that I can't breathe. You make one mistake and you're branded for life, I suppose. I did manage to look up some of your friend Olek's work (the internet is a wonderful place), and I agree that he's brilliant. Churches are magnificent pieces of work. I want to tour the cathedrals of France someday.

In the theme of reciprocity, a friend of mine, Michael, is a writer. He's coming out with his first book in August. It's a children's novel, but not the normal sort. It's packed with beautiful classical allusions, and references to the metaphysicals and heroic legends and all of that. You should check it out when you get a chance to get to the big island. I'll send you the title and all of that when the release date gets closer.

As much as I've loved The Beatles, that song has particularly negative connotations for me. Though, I think their White Album was best. Drive My Car, or Eleanore Rigby are more my style. And don't get me started on their solo work. John Lennon was a kook. I just watched a documentary on him because my cable magically granted me free channels for a little while. Here's a little not-quite-secret: I was named after the Little Richard song, Lucille. I think it's more my style, that. Him, screaming at the top of his squeaky little voice. You must have heard it before.

I like to think I'm celestial. Phenomena. A supernova. An imploding sun, swallowing up universes as it expands in a big smash of sound and blinding light. A star shower. A once in a life time comet sighting. Maybe that's just a big long list of the things I want to be rather than the things I am. You be the judge. What I do know, though, is that I'm no acid trip, unless you catch me on a good day.

What's the significance of your name? And what's your personality drug of choice?

Lucille

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Seven,

I used to watch I Love Lucy when I was little, because I thought it was a projected image of how I'd grow up to be, since Lucille Ball had my name. But instead, I never dyed my hair red, and I never married a Cuban, and I certainly never found a best friend named Ethel, or squished grapes with my feet, or worked at a chocolate factory. I don't really know what I prefer to be called. I've always been Lucy, however. Lucille is what people who don't know me, call me. Or people who I've managed to irritate.

That's interesting that your friend calls you Nico. It makes me think of Andy Warhol and the Velvet Underground, though you don't remind me of either. I don't know what you remind me of, in fact. Distant planets, spinning suns, old Roman architecture. Something distinctly permanent and out of reach.

I like the idea of being only what I want. But I still don't know what that is.

Could you send me a picture of your hands? I've never fashioned myself one for sketching anything more than dress patterns, but I've become completely full of a need to draw something.

Hopefully,
Lucy

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Seven,

I prefer Lucy. So I suppose, no harm, no foul. Though, I don't know where to find a best friend named Ethel save for the senior citizen center. And squishing grapes with my feet sounds terribly dirty. I'd have purple toes for days.

Who doesn't want to figure out who they are and what they want? It's a complicated road there, however. Lots of misadventures and wrong turns, missing pieces, dead ends, turn arounds, roundabouts, and wrong answers. I think you know more than you give yourself credit for, at your age. I can be proactive in some senses, and in others, I'm too happy to just let it all wash by me, without event or fanfare.

I asked for a picture of your hands, because I had an idea. As beautiful as your work space is, with its sandy floor and tin roof, I can't execute that idea with it. I wanted to replace fingernails and knuckles and shading and all of that typical art school stuff with cosmos and Roman columns and all the things you remind me of. I didn't want to represent them accurately. I rarely represent anything accurately.

But, we all must have something to keep to ourselves, hidden away. The picture you're looking at right now, or will be looking at once you pull it from the envelope, is of my left wrist, and the palm of my left hand. The scar on the wrist is worse, but you can see the faint little lines in my palm, where I got distracted one day and forgot what I was doing with a seam ripper.

I also sent you a picture of my work space. Reciprocity. The dress I'm working on is in the corner, and there are boxes everywhere. It's an absolute mess. I wish mine had a view of something other than the building next to it. How is life on the beach?

Your letters are enough. You don't need to send anything you don't want to.

Lucy

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ July 26, 2005 03:44 PM: Message edited by: godawful champagne ]</font>

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Seven,

You should be surprised. You should do things that are surprising. You and I should perfect the art of disappearing and reappearing. Sinking and resurfacing. There's a gorgeous summer storm outside, and I'm listening to music until the power cuts out, which I'm sure it will soon. For such a nice building, the fuses are really rather weather-relative.

You're the first person to ever refuse me anything, you know. I've never been refused. Or if I have, I've always been insistant on kicking and screaming until I got it anyway. I'm a terror, really. A tornado. You'll be so disappointed. All my attempts at seeming like I've got my head screwed on will have been for naught.

Instead, this time, I just drew what you said. All five fingers on your left hand splayed out, and three on your left, the last two curled under. I figured it would be easier that way, instead of ruining it with a title. I colored them all in with charcoal and then dotted in my stars and planets with white, and etched the skinny columns in on your fingers. My shading and texturing of the marble leaves something to be desired. I'm still a student.

I love your t-shirt. It reminds me of some of the stuff I've been trying to make with screen prints. Random faces, words, imagery that looks half-finished. I can only imagine that the sea looks gorgeous from where you are. And there's nothing wrong with being a slob. I'm not terribly neat either. I only clean because I know I'll be scolded by friends and family alike if I don't.

Lucy

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Seven,

I love the shirt. It's comfortable, I can't help but absolutely love it. It fits if I bunch the material up in the back a little and tie it with a hair elastic, so that's how I've been wearing it. It's a hit at the store, and it covers up the fact that I'm slowly growing out of all of my good pairs of jeans. So thank you, again. For everything. For writing and paying attention and listening and talking and all of the above.

I don't know if it's comforting or scary, knowing that you don't think I could disappoint you. I suppose comforting is the proper term. It's good to know. It doesn't make me want to try as hard to surprise and impress. Maybe I can do it without all the effort. I'm glad you liked the hands, though. I need to buy a sketchpad so I stop doing all of my drawing on simple paper. It's not thick enough for pastels.

I'm tearing seven tally marks into my latest dress. It'll be at the head of the fall show.

Lucy

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Seven,

I don't know why it took me so long to reply to this letter. Usually, I read the one you send, sit down and write back and send it out as soon as I pass a post office. But this one took a few days. I apologize if it kept you waiting.

I know you, but I don't. I have a business that someone else can watch for awhile. I could close it on weekdays and open it on weekends while I'm gone. No one comes in during the week, anyway. It's the curse of the East Village. I think if you want to go somewhere, we should. We'll do all the things we sit here and say we want to do. We'll disappear. I'll leave the woman a note, call her when I touch down and she'll understand. That's what's so great about someone who is half of you. They just understand these things. But if the urge has passed, we can forget about it. Some other time.. some other circumstance.

I think I would love Tokyo. And Cairo. It would make me want to create.

I don't know if I have much to tell you that's so interesting. The pregnancy is going fine. I've escaped the curse of morning sickness, for the most part. All it's done is completely shift my appetite. I'm starving at night instead of in the morning, like I usually am. And it's a boy. The doctors haven't said so yet, but it is. I just know. Get me within ten feet of you, and you'll know too. Everyone has said so.

I've enclosed some pictures of the dress. I've started the tops of the group of five, and the two remainders are finished. I just have to slice across the four with another, longer slash, which will be the hard part. One wrong move and the whole boddess could unravel. I'll do it on a day when I'm feeling confident and steady handed.

Meet me somewhere. You name the place.

Lucy

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Seven,

I think you mentioned living in New York, but I didn't know you lived in the East Village. I used to live there, way back when, but now I live above 14th. It's still a cultural center. There are still liberty spikes and dog collars, and now there are hipsters in swanky clothes and thriftstore items with a pair of Dior glasses, or Chanel jeans. It's still got crime, you still shouldn't go past Avenue D at night, the music is still loud, and the walk ups are still rundown. Things have changed, but then again, they haven't.

Tokyo! I'm absolutely thrilled. I've been dancing all around all day at just the thought of it. Should I buy plane tickets? I don't know a stitch of Japanese. Except 'arigato', for obvious reasons. And I can count to three. I'm well on my way, hm? I'd love to invite Liv and have you meet her, but she's in the middle of work and wouldn't be able to come. Plus, her boyfriend wouldn't appreciate me pulling her away. He's got two twin girls and would miss the extra set of hands.

Thank you for your professional critique. And your personal opinion. It means the world to me.

See you soon?
Lucy

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Seven,

An itinerary, hm? Are you going to think of things for us to do? You'll know the place more than I do, so I'm going to have to rely on you to at least be some sort of a guide. Even if I know more numbers than you do. We'll teach each other. My passport is updated, yes. I just went to Italy awhile ago, with no problems.

I've heard that song. It was in a film a few years ago, and before that, the film was a stage show. Very sensationalist and colorful and surreal. I think you might like it. And I think the song fits you, wonderfully. A big stitched up montage. The designer in me loves the needle and thread motif. If I had to put you together, I'd pick red thread. Maybe navy blue around the more difficult parts.

I have a lot of different songs, depending on where I am and what I'm feeling, but lately, I think this one sums things up quite nicely.

Well I know it's just a spring haze, but I don't much like the look of it. And if omens are a godsend, like men, breezing in, certain these clouds go somewhere, billowing out to somewhere. In a single engine cessna, you say we'll never make it there. So all we do is circle it. Uh oh. Let go. Off on my way. Unseen, this eternal wanting. Uh oh. Way to go. So I get creamed. Waiting on Sunday to drown. Uh oh. Way to go. Waiting on Sunday. Waiting on Sunday to land. So I know it's just a spring haze, but I don't much like the look of it. But all we do is circle it. And I found out where my edge is, and it bleeds into where you resist. And my only way out is to go so far in. Billowing out to somewhere, billowing out luna riviera, billowing out to somewhere.

There's more, but it's repetitious. It's quiet, but the lyrics are the focus, and the pauses between each lyric in the verse. And then there's the uptempo of the chorus. It just feels like me lately. Quiet and weighty. Pausing and then picking up speed. Indecisive, but a whole.

I'm available whenever. I can go in and set new hours for the store tomorrow. I shouldn't stay away for too long. A week at the most. The girls I've hired are a little skittish without direction.

Lucy