I’m sitting under eight menacing paper hearts which I hung from our ceiling because I figured it would be a good way to fulfill my Valentine responsibilities. The intended impact was a room fluttering with a kind of lacey, helpless, Victorian love, the whole roof sighing and rustling its skirts. Unfortunately, I could only reach a small patch of ceiling so the effect is more of some swelling disease; a tumorous thatch. We have consumption of the crown and are coughing up paper and ribbons.
In the meantime we continue to have ants, symbolic of all kinds of things depending on what I need symbolized on any given day. Today I’m going with the march of feminist progress, what with my Virginia Woolf readings–or Woolf if you like but I still cannot do it–riling me up. I feel like I should be scolding men on the street for infringing on my personhood. That’s not what Woolf meant–that’s not what the ants mean either–but that’s where I am today. Anyway, how far have we progressed if I’m still hanging swoony Victorian submission from the ceiling?