I pursue the vocation of hush-hush, harboring oceanic rationale and the likening of perhaps, knowing more than anyone in the room on the topic of being. On parading, realizing there is no symphonized lipstick on the coffee mugs – and noting everyone having a curious time. The arcane mistress of who-what-where-e-monies. Routinely found lurking in places where children interact and mothers smile politely. I still chafe inside, envisioning a thousand glances, wondering if that broken fingernail would go unnoticed. Arguing internally about the appropriateness of being fashionable and inviting the disdain of those who prefer Crocs. Instead of murmuring about baby vomit, opening the door on the subject of time travel, perfect pleating, cultural taboo or genomic singularity. Old pearls can be worn smartly versus highly calcified and pale. What is this camouflage of the maternal? Make life.