O where o where did the little stinky and fluffy sheep of Yours Truly go.
When I gaze at this image of my Perfect Bo Peep self YT think Ahh, I could have had a fine and rewarding career upon the boards, as they say in the theatre biz.
In this month's Harpers is a piece about Frances Bean Cobain, the little child of the man who changed rock in the 90s, and that rock & roll diva, Courtney Love.
The girl has a moonish face, and does not in the least resemble the image that YT made of her when she was but a tot, in the arms of her nanny, as Hole performed at The Tralf in the Middling City. FBC had little tot sonic-banning earmuffs upon her head, her little hands raised up to keep them in place, mom a car wreck on stage, weeping, wailing, ripping her clothing, and performing in stops and starts. Kurt (who YT also photographed about a month before he blew his complex brain to bits) was just departed so the grief in the room was fresh.
Ended Valentine's Day drinking a Perfect bottle of Veuve with Heady, Sparky, Jeremy, as a very white and snowy puppy slumbered under my cashmere sweater.
I propose that today, the day following Saint Valentine's Day, be celebrated with ash smudges right over the heart. As those who celebrate/participate in Ash Wednesday the day after Mardi Gras walk about with smudges on their foreheads.
If this becomes a new hot holiday trend do recall that you heard this first on epinw, harbingerpress of sorts of all things Perfect, novel, loveful.

Smudgy Love.