Marge /
It starts as a note, a paragraph, a piece; add line breaks, let the seams down, and it looks like a poem, but it can’t be that easy. Take it in, adjust the neckline, add new buttons, remove the sleeves, hold them up against another garment, see how they sit. The threads are unraveling now a little, and it’s satisfying to fray them, but you could go too far and lose sight of the thing. Sometimes writing goes like this. Sometimes I feel like Marge and her Chanel suit, working and reworking sentences and whole paragraphs, feeling out their final form, hoping no one will mind that this is more like recycling than writing, that I have worn this outfit many times, that parts of it are beginning to feel constricting. At other times it’s like darning; a thread stretches across a hole to create a warp, and another is woven between it to make something appear where first there was nothing.