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Why An Artist Needs Powerful Friends
Who will stand by your side when the witch hunts begin?
I used to want to be a preacher’s wife.
In my fantasy we’d live outside a small southern town on a plot of land buried in a deep forest. My husband would be tall and thin, but not too thin, and have the kind of handsome face that would look good on Mt. Rushmore. He’d spend his days writing sermons, attending to the flock, having lunch with local politicians. On the nights when he couldn’t be with me because he had to attend to a grieving widow or had some business in the city, I’d tuck his worn King James bible with the maroon cover in the bed beside me. A reminder that he was always with me.
I would be his wild wife, with long dark hair down to my wrists. Hair that I hadn’t cut in years. Deep eyebrows and deeper eyes. I’d wear monk’s clothes and 40-year-old dresses soiled at the edges. Satin pumps that looked like I’d once walked through an open grave with them on. I’d spend my days writing and would only come down to town to attend my husband’s sermons, or to drink a cup of coffee at the local diner.
I would never speak in public. Never smile. But whispers would follow me, the burbling of townsfolk. Children would come up to me curious, only to be pulled away by their mothers. Shops would mysterious close as I approach.
