It is the clothes that cover us that stirs desire for what lies beneath. The fig leaves Eve wore in the Garden of Eden were not designed to conceal, but to draw Adam’s eye to what Eve had artfully hidden. Just as flowers come in infinite colors and put out sweet scents to attract the birds and butterflies that pollinate them, we paint our lips pink as an allusion to the moist flush of our sex and perfume our pulses to arouse the hunger in every stranger. A girl in primitive times was the victim of male lust and the guile required to survive and flourish is the mask she subconsciously wears today. Love is war and clothes are our armor.

Half-dressed, as if posing for Helmut Newton, I stand before the open doors of the closet as if it is a sanctuary. Sometimes, when I am depressed, or facing a wall of silence, I creep inside and pull the doors closed behind me. I meditate in this dark silky womb. I tell myself to be positive, to write the right thing because it is the right thing to write. Writing is hard. Persevere. After each word the next word has already burst from its cast and grown wings. All you have to do is catch it and pin it to the page. You find inspiration by writing, not by thinking about what you are going to write. For me, writing and dressing have become analogous. You select words as if picking glass from an injury with tweezers and each piece of clothing so that the ensemble makes an unequivocal statement.

I rifle though a field of blouses and tops before lighting on an ivory cashmere rollneck and a brown leather belt with a snake’s head clasp. I reached for a military style jacket with two rows of brass buttons rising at an angle to wide shoulders with epaulettes. The jacket is cerulean, my favorite shade of blue, neither warm nor cold, the color of the kingfisher. Most of my clothes are a pinch too small and I dress with the vague sense that someone else may later be undressing me. This doesn’t happen very often. I am not that promiscuous. But a girl should always be ready, just in case.

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