Afraid of her own computer…
May 21, 2007
So I was talking to a friend the other night and one thing led to another led to spillage and fear.
You know how you can wonder, how on earth did this topic of conversation come up? Or how on earth did this happen? Well, I wanted to capture this conversation.
Mao’s preserved body rested in a glass case in his memorial. A security guard recognized a man he had seen waiting in line at the memorial every day for the past few weeks and asked him, “Why do you visit Mao every day? You must really admire him.” “No,” replied the man. “I just wanted to make sure that he was really dead.”
Preserved body, story of embalming said body leads to discussion of Damien Hirst and decomposing shark in murky tank and young british artists more generally speaking. A little wikipedia and recollections of Myra Hindley by Marcus Harvey painted with the handprints of children proceed to give us goosebumps. The Spanish merlot isn’t particularly helping. So now that we are on the subject of horrific crime, Lizzie Borden’s name pops up, and as we read about her trial, we find the website of the Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast. I would put the link up, but it really is far too scary. And I wouldn’t want that kind of responsibility. I clicked on the site, and what popped up sent my friend and myself into hysterics. My friend jumped out of her skin, knocking over her Merlot, which made a blood-red stain on the hardwood floor. Lizzie Borden’s ghost and piercing, beady eyes (ooh are they beady) converted my room into an imaginary crime scene.
I don’t think I’ve been this afraid since walking back from the studio, feeling my way through pitch black tunnels, with the occasional ember glow of an emergency exit sign.