My dearest friends, felines, and co-conspirators,
In all my years of hobnobbing with royalty and noshing with celebrities, I’d never met anyone as intriguing, absorbing, and enigmatic as the fabled Tessa-Marie Soliloquy Faux, the historical custodian of a most curious collection. She collected art and artifact and stories not told, the curation of which took centuries to complete.
Along the way, Tessa-Marie amassed the most exquisite assemblage of Wayward girls. A group of women she trusted—perhaps a little too much. Imagine human existence as a handful of multi-colored ribbons made of time, people, and places, woven together like a plait down a child’s back. Wisps of hair began to stray, ribbons frayed, and with enough naughtiness, eventually, everything became undone. Human existence horrified her, at best. She became obsessed with fixing it all or at least making it appear that way.
We met in a speakeasy at the memory’s edge of town. Tessa-Marie had spools of stories to tell, and I was happy to indulge her insatiable tongue-wagging over nights of alcohol-induced euphoria. Moments I was dogged to follow the rest of my life resulted in merged realities and shared experiences. I couldn’t get enough of her. And now I shall pass her stories on to you. Perhaps you’ll remember them. Maybe you won’t. It might all be real. Or perhaps it’s not. Who are we to say what is truth and what is lie, what is real, and what is a pure figment of our beloved imagination?
Yours in faithful frivolity and other unsightly sins,
The Absinthe Minded Curator
In all my years of hobnobbing with royalty and noshing with celebrities, I’d never met anyone as intriguing, absorbing, and enigmatic as the fabled Tessa-Marie Soliloquy Faux, the historical custodian of a most curious collection. She collected art and artifact and stories not told, the curation of which took centuries to complete.
Along the way, Tessa-Marie amassed the most exquisite assemblage of Wayward girls. A group of women she trusted—perhaps a little too much. Imagine human existence as a handful of multi-colored ribbons made of time, people, and places, woven together like a plait down a child’s back. Wisps of hair began to stray, ribbons frayed, and with enough naughtiness, eventually, everything became undone. Human existence horrified her, at best. She became obsessed with fixing it all or at least making it appear that way.
We met in a speakeasy at the memory’s edge of town. Tessa-Marie had spools of stories to tell, and I was happy to indulge her insatiable tongue-wagging over nights of alcohol-induced euphoria. Moments I was dogged to follow the rest of my life resulted in merged realities and shared experiences. I couldn’t get enough of her. And now I shall pass her stories on to you. Perhaps you’ll remember them. Maybe you won’t. It might all be real. Or perhaps it’s not. Who are we to say what is truth and what is lie, what is real, and what is a pure figment of our beloved imagination?
Yours in faithful frivolity and other unsightly sins,
The Absinthe Minded Curator
|
|
|