Mood:
Now Playing: See Amy Baker at Obsidian Gallery in Tucson, Arizona
Topic: Fritillaries of ART
Dear Moth Girl,

There you are, suspended over Manhattan at about 10:00 in the evening. Your dress is yellow and someone is singing "The Yellow Rose of Texas" 2,300 miles away, and it ain't Roy Rogers. Is it Trigger?
What's Amy like? Is she fussy? Everything she does has this kind of pull that screams Perfection. The materials are so counterbalanced, or something like that.
It makes me sad to think how well your clothes fit you. Look at me, awash in my own admixture of sizes, without a proboscis to feel my way around. Do you pity me?
On the flip side you are red and foreboding, a wolvish double-headed woman. I like you better, just because of the proboscis.
They would call me elephantine if I had one. But I wouldn't kick it around. I'd just laugh in it, so that no one could hear when I was amused. You seem a little wrapped up in yours.
When I was rearranging my books tonight, I looked at you and felt stunned, quite literally. You were sitting in front of the postcards, next to the metallic grasshopper. That's where you always sit, on the hem of your perfect dress. I was pantless. This is troubling to those around me but I don't mind their troubles. I have a shirt on. That's all that matters.



