the girl who didn’t blink


I haven’t seen anything like it. She didn’t blink. She brought herself to tears, staring at the camera, but didn’t blink. Not for, like, MINUTES on end. My eyes were smarting like crazy just looking at her.

One of the lines in Frankie is:

“You have a face I want to look at.”

Some faces are just like that. Beautiful or not. Sometimes there is just something about them.

A couple of nights ago we saw the 13 Most Beautiful Dean & Britta show as part of the Arts Festival. They put 13 of Andy Warhol’s screen tests to music.

The main thing I thought all the way through the show, looking into these black and white faces for minutes on end: Everything we have is in our head. Also I thought: The face is a very thin veneer with the brain so volatile and so close behind it. Something like that. You get the picture.

If eyes are the window to the soul, then what is the whole face?

Early night tonight. Accidentally ended up back at home, alone, on a Saturday night. All dressed up and nowhere to go. I have taken my earrings out and even my newly-poured glass of wine can’t entice me to stay up.

Sitting at the kitchen table writing this, listening to the best of Radiohead. My brother calls me up on his way out to a party and says:

“Oh.” And he pauses. “You’re listening to Radiohead.”


“That’s sad.” As in: Is there something you want to tell me? Are you okay?

“Not really.” I laugh it off. No cause for alarm (as in: No alarms and no surprises.)

“Do you want to come to the party?”

“No thank you.”

Well, I didn’t. You can call me a Radiohead-appreciating wallflower, but I had already taken my earrings out. A sure sign of the end of an evening.


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