Control

I love Taylor Swift’s art. It’s often felt quite liberating to me. The way hymns do.

And today I’m realizing how unlikely it is that anyone from my other online accounts read this blog, unless they’re from the perfume community. It’s not impossible but it’s unlikely. And I feel even more liberated by that.

My life is a luxurious, electric chaos. Grounded in a Lutheran church built in 1915. On the prairie. Where everyone is buried and I saw my grandmother’s possible ghost.

Lacey climbs above the chandelier at an opera house and the entire lot of chandeliers start to swing in sync at her will. Pause at her will.

“It’s pretty up here isn’t it?” observes Michael as they all stand on the roof.

“Why does it have to be like this?” asks Lacey to him and Lem.

“You’ll find out.” says Lem. He smiles.

“That’s demonic!” yells a Christian.

Lacey, Lem, and Michael bow on Holy Spirit cue before God. On an autumn rooftop. In glorious submission to Christ.

“Don’t threaten me.” says Lacey. “I’ll catch all your secrets in my net and use them to plot Satan’s demise.”

“On second thought, do. Do act carelessly.” says Michael. “Do haunt her. Do leave her questioning her sanity.” He smiles. “Nothing scares Him.”

“Him? That little nothing, Christ? That little passé bitch.” says Lacey sarcastically.

Michael cracks up laughing. Laughing at the utter silliness of Jesus’ haters.

“They know not what they do?” asks Lacey, seriously. Thoughtfully.

And the circles form from the music. The chandeliers swing. To Swift.

“Lacey why are you so sad?” asks Michael.

“People do notice me. For my intelligence. My money, so to speak. My mind. My beauty. But they don’t see me.” says Lacey.

“And you are those things. But I know what you mean.” says Michael.

Lacey sighs. “Everyone is fascinating.” says Lacey.

Scott nods in understanding.

They stand staring at Cathedral Hill. Across the highway.

A woman who crawled into traffic in 2015 (?) looks up at Lacey. Lacey waves hello.

“It’s me. I’m problem it’s me.” plays.

“And I’m a monster on the hill!” sings Louis.

The woman stares at Scott, Zelda, Hemingway, Lacey, Michael, and Louis. They’re staring down at her on Thursday in October. Confused.

“Why?” asks Lacey, deeply saddened.

The woman swallows and begins weeping. Falls apart. Is comforted by real angels. And that’s when she realizes what a horrific mistake she made.

But if she’s not in Hell, she’s in Purgatory? And God’s grace is great. But the edges of reality cut us open into pieces without God’s grace.

But she’s fascinating. And her death was a real tragedy.

“And why don’t you think anyone loves you?” asks Michael darkly.