Living just to find devotion is the tao, is the way, in the big city. When everybody wants a thrill, sometimes it takes a small town girl with big city dreams to make it all come true. And when the bandleader starts the song, and the girl walks in with a white dress that’s been torn from haunting an abandoned building somewhere in time, somewhere in Austria where no one gets married without losing their own histories and herstories, it’s a dream for the front pocket. A dream she can keep.
If there were no Miranda Clark , it would be necessary to invent her, and that’s what she’s done. Or doing. She’s not done doing, because this carousel won’t stop, can’t stop, not in this century, when there’s so much left to be done. There are questions to ask, things to make, and serious accessorizing that has to happen or the prom will be ruined and we will all end up crying on the curb.
This is a performance, this is an emergency, this is a dream wedding with a week in the perfect dream of a perfect hotel , somewhere inside the city that doesn’t sleep, but if it did, we would want it to dream a little dream for her.
Sweetness comes, sweetness reigns, sweetness is the queen of the ball, but sometime after the ticktock of quiet children speed up to a monotone, the high pitch wakes the dogs of history and memory. Collective memory fills the mouths of the living with the skittles of time, and no one is able to speak without rainbows coming falling down, down the chins of the gatekeepers. Meanwhile, she is there, somewhere in the dining room, looking through the china cabinet, sharpening digital fingernails and watching for signs of the wolf at the door.
It’s an ongoing struggle between dog and wolf, a fight that left the forest a long time ago, and one that has to return to the forest to find its proper ring. Boxing or wedding, the verbs are pouring off the page and into an image we can’t recall and can’t deny, and meanwhile meanwhile, someone is being evicted from a karaoke bar at the crossroads of culture and gender.