I have several other projects I am committed to, but I’ve fallen in literary love with these women at Carnival in Rio and I am allowing myself to be distracted for the time being.
I’m the product of fierce, funny, and salacious women. Growing up, it was less June Cleaver and more Sophia Loren. I was more Lucille Ball and less Grace Kelly. My paternal grandmother Lena, was considered fat even by her generation’s standards but she always kept that hour glass figure, bright red lipstick, perfect pin curls and mink coat to boot. My women were loud and bursting with color. They could cook but they would kill you at rummy. They could hug you but they’d rather dance. When I see these scantly clad, sparkling women in Rio, with their wide brimmed smiles and untouchable strut, I am reminded that the best parts of a woman are not the quiet parts-they are the daily celebrations of their womanhood. To me, the divine feminine is not docile, she is roaring. She is present and has presence. The divine woman is not the rigid American Dream, she is the devil’s music and a bottle of gin. She is the sailor tattoos and the raspy croon from a record player. She is the blood, the fire, the DNA that does not fear a dark corner or the sound of her own moan.
Her beauty is endless because she creates and defines it on her own terms.
Maybe I had fodder for all those projects after all.