What Possessed Me

It's got my name written all over it

 

I wrote about my encounter with Persephone Books when this blog was still on the breast and pooping up its back, but I just saw this beautiful diary on India Knight's blog and wanted to share it with you.  am a great admirer of Persephone Books, which publishes neglected works by 20th century women writers (for this alone I love them) and (as if this weren't already enough) uses vintage fabric as inspiration for their endpapers. The blue fabric featured here is on sale at the store (GAH!) and the yellow was a fabric designed by Duncan Grant for Virginia Woolf's curtains. In this age of digital media, I am grateful to those who produce books that are beautiful, feminine, timeless, and inspiring to the senses. And how wonderful is their guide to Perfect Presents? Something lovely for the cook, the newlywed, the poet, the mother, the traveler, or the person who needs cheering up.

When my parents named me Persephone, they caught all sorts of hell from people who thought the name was absurd and pretentious. I've had to justify it, explain it, and repeat it my entire life. Having read what Persephone Books has to say about its name, I feel I now have the right words:

Why Persephone

We chose the name Persephone because it has a timeless quality; sounds beautiful; is very obviously feminine; and symbolises new beginnings (and fertility) as well as female creativity.

We did not at first realise that Persephone also symbolises many other aspects of women's lives, for example, less cheerfully, she represents married hell (being raped and imprisoned by her uncle Hades).

But mainly she is an image of women's creativity, and that is why our logo, based on a painting on a Greek amphora, shows a woman who is not only reading (the scroll) but also symbolises domesticity (the goose). She is not the goddess herself, but we preferred her to all other extant images of Persephone as well as to her own symbols - a daffodil, a lily, a pomegranate and a bat.

The agenda is available on October 21st at Persephone Books in London. If you're not in London, try emailing them at [email protected] to see if they can send one by mail...

Cheers

Here's why I have no reason to whine (though little things like reasons never stop me from indulging in my favorite past-time):

• Friends who talk me off the ledge while I'm tearing my hair out over wedding nonsense.
• Friends who organize a picnic by the East River, feeding me slices of chicken sausage and crisp green beans and lovely red wine when I am tired and cranky and uninspired.
• Friends whose kindness reaches me through the ethers (and in person) though this little old blog.
• An interview that went JUST FINE and another round of scary interviews on Friday. I am lucky to even have an interview, even though it doesn't make me quiver with excitement.
• My clematis Bonanza is blooming for the first time. It looks so pretty against this simple white IKEA trellis.
• According to Kate, it's National Fist Bump Day. To honor the occasion, I've been fist-bumping everyone in sight, which is oddly therapeutic.
• This gorgeous pink prosecco makes life celebratory and wonderful for a mere $11. The bottle is beautiful too.
• This redonkulously good (and easy) recipe for pork bacon-wrapped pork loin with cherries. Ain't nothin' wrong with a little pork wrapped pork. PORKATARIANS UNITE!

So - three cheers to good things.

P.S. In case you think I've gone all Pollyanna on your asses, I will include two complaints (but look! Only two! I'm improving...):

• Elly got me addicted to the first season of the BBC series Queer As Folk. I have since found out that it hasn't been released in the United States. Where the hell am I going to get my daily dose of gay pseudo-porn now? WHERE, I ask you? I need my homo-tainment, peoples.
• When I said this was the only thing in London, I forgot about this. How can you not love a dirt cheap lip balm that tints your lips the perfect shade of rose? And that comes in a cute yet utilitarian package? AND THAT IS NOT SOLD IN THE UNITED STATES, DAMNITTOHELL?

Marilyn via Suicide Blonde.

How P. got her groove back (London edition)

Meet my friends.

Elly Belly: Women's rights advocate, consummate hostess, fledgling pin-up

Shazzer: Reluctant PhD, doormouse, calendar girl (Miss Eid Al-Fitr)

Dr. Dre: Defender of good, voice of reason, one hell of a good head of hair.

Dread Pirate P.: (Not pictured; still at large) Good-time girl, inappropriate conversation starter, not so hot at taking out her contacts.

It started like this: P. was not herself. She felt dismal about her career, stressed about her wedding, and slightly disturbed to find that she had the mojo of a beached manatee. Where was the joie? Where was the crackling vitality and light-heartedness of youth? Lost somewhere between the pages of Martha Stewart Weddings and version 8.2 of her resume.

Like a harmonic convergence, they aligned after many years to make sweet, sweet music. The sound of balls-out laughter and German dance tracks could be heard all over Brixton, where the girls gathered for the slumber party to end all slumber parties.

Their motives were pure. They began with a walk through the park, a visit to the garden center. They went to Brixton market and ate cake. They haggled for lamb, made Moroccan mint tea and sipped it in Elly's yard. Their BBQ was a smashing success.

Then things got hectic.

There may have been some drinking. And some dancing. And some flirting. And some snogging. P. was a superlative wingwoman. "Have you met my friend Elly? She's an interpretative dancer!"

There may have been an epic (and slightly bumbling) escape from the den of a hardcore pornographer, whose collection of reading material would make Larry Flint blush. There may have been an admirer called Courageous. There may have been a swollen ankle, a homemade eye patch, and a hangover named Satan.

There may have been three nights out until 5am. And nights in eating cold kebab. There may have been long conversations about love and disappointment and longing and defiance. There may have been face masks.

They barely slept because they loved to be together. And when the Dread Pirate P. limped home, half blind, bruised, and exhausted, she missed her girls terribly.