God-Awful

Durwood and I went to the weekly auction where we'd consigned Mom's antiques last night. The stuff sold for peanuts. It broke my heart and I had to leave when I caught myself considering getting a bidding number to buy the remaining stuff back so the philistines didn't get it. It took a while to get over the feeling that we'd thrown Mom's treasures away and that it was my idea, but I can't beat myself up over it, we did our best. Walking out along the bay this morning was cold, damned cold, but sunny and bright. We saw an eagle fly by fairly close and lots of deer tracks. Then I spent the rest of the day scattering Mom's ashes. AJ met me at Dad's grave where we left most of the ashes, I also scattered some at Mom's favorite bridge spots, and up in Door County overlooking the sunset. Now I feel as if Mom's affairs are nearly settled. I can almost relax. I swear I'm going to spend the winter unloading stuff we seldom use and things we haven't touched since we moved in. The garbage men will probably grow to dread trash day at our house and the Goodwill people will be on a first-name basis but I don't want to leave all this for DS and DD when we kick off.

December 8--Christian Dior, "Cygne Noir" Evening Dress. The black swan was what he called her. He designed the dress, "Cygne Noir" for her. Even sewed her into so that she could only take it off with his help. Only he knew how to release her without ruining the black silk. The structure of the bodice felt like hands, his hands, gripping her in the most intimate way. Each breath flexed the strips of boning, making her aware of his hold on her. He smoothed the black silk gloves up over her hands and over her arms nearly to her shoulders. She carried no bag, wore no jewelry. Her shoes were delicate cages that held her feet just like the dress and gloves held her body. He had staked his claim on her and she saw no escape.

Creepy. Nighty-night.
--Barbara