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“A man’s life is a series of trials that women often figure in,” Hot Type columnist Michael Miner notes, musing on the O.J. Simpson case, and on the amorous wreckage of his own past, after the Kyprian’s gaze had fallen upon him, and led a much younger incarnation to wander off of his life’s path. (“When a Man Slugs a Woman,” June 24. With apologies to Sappho, of course.)
For my part, I can still recall the terrible beauty, an artist, no less, who once told me that she wanted to “destroy” herself–a la Arthur Rimbaud’s “disorder of all the senses,” was my hope. “I came to regard the disorder of my mind as sacred,” the seer explained. But when last I ever heard of her, several light-years ago, this artist’s search of herself for all the forms of love, suffering, and madness, known or unknown, had led her straight to the altar and, who knows–maybe even a suburban home with the requisite little ones, folding chairs, and an outdoor jacuzzi.
Evergreen Park
