This is the last outrage, what women do in secret, slipping their fingers under bras or nightgowns on wild, moon-driven nights, needing to true the circle of their breasts, wanting to lunge below desire, beneath arousal and beyond the sweet milk-happiness of feeding children to find the nuclear godawful contraband their bodies might be hiding—the refrain danger, danger, singing in their minds.
At dusk I slip into a pew, enthralled, alert, combing through the week to find what might destroy me, to send it away. Lawyer, accused, bent to root out scandal, my hands judging. And also, maybe guilty.
Unlikely as it sounds, director Tim Burton missed all the jokes in Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street. The origins of the celebrated 1979 musical, written by Stephen Sondheim in collaboration with Hugh Wheeler, lie in the vaudeville-style English music hall tradition and in 19th-century penny dreadfuls.
no bicep, no bone, no lung and no cheek, so lean, not even breath not even earth— humus, placental—nothing but dust nothing but ash burnt up consumed— not the predominant water no song and no sound no taste and no touch no hunger not even age-lame or deaf not even tomb-bound and rotting no pain yes but also no feeling no hope and no hunger the end of I and I think not I hurt or even am nothing no cross on the forehead no forehead no thing at all.
He assumes his still posture two feet from the table. He is not grabby, his tongue is not hanging out, he is quiet.
He wants to leap, he wants to snap up meat and blood. You can tell. But what he does is sit as the gods his masters and mistresses fork steak and potatoes into their mouths.
He is expectant but not presumptuous. He can wait. He can live with disappointment. He can abide frustration and suffer suspense.
He watches for signals, he listens for calls of his name from above.
At hints that he may be gifted with a morsel, he intensifies his already rapt concentration, he looks his god in the eye, but humbly, sure of his innocence in his need, if his need only.
On the (often rare) occasions when gifts are laid on his tongue, he takes them whole, then instantly resumes the posture of attention, beseeching, listening, alert, the posture of hard-won faith that will take no for an answer, yet ever and again hopefully return to the questioning.
Can you tell me what to want now? I can’t go on, no turning back. We’d sing, “Jesus on the main line, tell him what you want. Just call him up, tell him what you want, what you want.” But these six months, they came to me, I tell you— tire tracks and footsteps flattened the grass ’round the green tent—my words made such sound toward the crowd—they bent, repented. But I knew I was nothing, I just stalled in the river’s flow. I waited for you, tensed as a dog’s hind leg crouching before bread crusts and melon rinds. Miz Black yowls “Call him up, call him up now!” But you’re here, and I’m blown, a cattail’s sag, I am birds dispersed—pepper in the wind.
So you doubt the whereabouts of God, a quark, everywhere yet nowhere at once. So the hell what? Doubt you the wind, doubt sandstone erosion and trilobite carapace. Let faith in dawn weather slow as feldspar. The sperm whale’s lungs collapse a thousandfold in unfathomable depths, yet bear it, unyielding. You who preach against miracles, go doubt the arctic tern asleep on the wing. Doubt that a father will leave untouched constellations of frost inside his windshield, the breath of his child frozen overnight. Doubt that bodies lose a few grams the moment of death. Doubt that, you who will, doubt that.
Americans now donate five times as many clothes to charity than they did in 1980. The supply of donated clothing outstrips the demand: typically, only 20 percent of donated clothing is sold where it is donated. In 2014, 11 percent of clothing donated to Goodwill ended up in landfills. About 45 percent of all donated clothing is exported to foreign countries by for-profit companies. The glut of used clothing disrupts local economies in developing countries, putting textile workers out of jobs. Bre Cruickshank recommends that clothing donors invest “in timeless styles of better quality,” rather than “refreshing our wardrobe according to seasonal trends” (Not Just a Label, April 9).