August 23, 2004
Vanity
“Vanity” seemed such a strange name for a table when, as a child, I first saw one at my paternal grandmother’s house. It was small and lace-trimmed, with the faint aroma of talcum dust. As I would learn later, not only did the word tell of such a table, but of a “compact,” a small case or handbag for holding toilet articles also called an “etui” (fortunately for crossword puzzlers).
On my grandmother’s vanity was a tantalizing picture of a woman seated at a similar table gazing at herself in a small mirror. In her reflection, she saw there a human skull, strangely configured from her own presence and immediate surroundings. The sight chilled me in utter fascination. I didn’t know then about narcissism, didn’t even know the word, but now I wonder if perhaps my grandmother may have kept that picture there as a kind of necessary warning provided by her own Baptist conscience.
At memory moments like this, there comes to me “out of nowhere,” as it were, that if not for the facility and ubiquity of the cyber world, I’d remain an altogether unpublished writer. It’s also a fact that were it not for those of you out there who let me know from time to time, I’d not only be unpublished, but also unread. I’m reminded again now why this whole procedure of short and more or less daily essays (”blog” is so ugly and nauseous a word) is sometimes quite rightly called the “Vanity Press.”