mmmarilyn;

a big-city fairy tale.

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friday, september 8, 2006.

And you know these tall men, when they get you out of doors on a spring evening, and you're in a docile frantic state, and you can smell flowers.

They stand over you looking warm. You'd tell them anything.

The new works were undecorated and white. Their shapes were sad revisions of the shapes he had once made on a hand-turned wheel in Blaktapur as a boy. There were even some based on the elephant's-head coathook, a tourist bauble which he made ugly afresh, this time not in collusion with the viewer, All his new ceramics had this trademark unfriendly quality. They might be bowls, but not bowls from which to eat soup. They were bowls in which to float a single violet, only to find it has vanished overnight.

"I got a phone call from your father, saying he'd found you. He called you a maiden in distress. I was mostly worried, because Eddie was very small, that you didn't have some contagious disease. I said that, and your father puffs himself all up and says, 'Lannie, that's riduculous. This is a little girl, a little baby girl.'

"I was so. Pissed. Then he got home and it turns out he thought I said 'religious beliefs,' not 'contagious disease.' The phone connection was always terrible, you know."

—Sandra Newman, the only good thing anyone has ever done

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