The latest package from my
mom came yesterday.
It was in a wooden wine case
with a bronze clasp, secured with packing tape. It opened like a briefcase.
Inside: a green veil with
sequins (some unglued), a necklace Ė beads Ė green, a bra Ė blue and green,
straps unfinished. I have to fit the straps to my ribcage.
No other contents, just the
scent of Athens, Momís apartment, her other costumes, musty perfumes.
I have been sending her
things in stages as well: essays downloaded from our website; her articles
that I edited and sent to the gilded serpent; money that I collected for
Aliís CDs. She sends me costumes; I send her paper, words. Pictures too.
Mom is one of my favorite
readers, but the subject is herself so she of course likes that. She
doesnít understand why I donít just post everything up on the internet. I
want it to be as good as possible first. She doesnít care about that kind
of perfectionism. Itís about living now. She doesnít wait until the whole
costume is finished to send it, she sends it to me one piece at a time, in
stages, and some pieces are unfinished. And I love the pieces, the stages.
I see her walk to the post
office by the Big Church and wait in line, send it off. There, that task
done for the day. Then walk back to her apartment, maybe take a bath, wait
for her students to show up.