Adam Fieled (editor, Plymouth Meeting, Pennsylvania): "Michelangelo's Tarantula"
If she left us nought but paintings, no pictures of herself,
what else might we say of Diana, except that she was also
Jenny? I could always mail to her in space, wherever she is,
a copy of How To Win Friends and Influence People. Or the prize
of a free golden easel, for having forced her hand in where
others dared to be more real. For always looking slightly
different, and as is fashionable in the mid-Twenties, a hundred
dollar gift card at Bloomingdale’s, so that access be granted
to the elite of make-up counters. I saw her blonde, brunette,
and tawny. There can’t be resentment at throwing the paintings
around— she could paint— but knowing why her expert moves
to seduce me, employed at a moment of maximum susceptibility
on my part, worked, I am inclined just to understand why whoever
she really was, would have to skulk in interminable shadows for
the time being. Diana, who was Jenny, can never disguise herself
in the paintings. She’s a livid soul. The Maryland sticks I refuse to
comment on much, except to say that, to paraphrase Jeremy, even
their minor accomplishments are overshadowed by their utter anonymity. So,
I went around like Michelangelo’s David (a bumbling oaf, sort of,
as Mary saw it), fucking everything in sight, and I fucked her
and fucked her again— as a blonde, a brunette. I was to miss her in
representative tawny form, because that was the most real, right?
A dumb oaf like me is righteous material as a sitter but to be avoided
as a husband. Mary proved that. Or did she? Diana just wanted to be
the Jenny to show up, surprise everyone and cause trouble. Just like
all those lovely tarantulas she so admired. There is no Michelangelo’s
Tarantula, but that’s the whole point. Mary’s idealism, and handy
camera, gutter-ball into Kanzler’s shadows, and eternal vacancy. So be it.
© Adam Fieled 2026
what else might we say of Diana, except that she was also
Jenny? I could always mail to her in space, wherever she is,
a copy of How To Win Friends and Influence People. Or the prize
of a free golden easel, for having forced her hand in where
others dared to be more real. For always looking slightly
different, and as is fashionable in the mid-Twenties, a hundred
dollar gift card at Bloomingdale’s, so that access be granted
to the elite of make-up counters. I saw her blonde, brunette,
and tawny. There can’t be resentment at throwing the paintings
around— she could paint— but knowing why her expert moves
to seduce me, employed at a moment of maximum susceptibility
on my part, worked, I am inclined just to understand why whoever
she really was, would have to skulk in interminable shadows for
the time being. Diana, who was Jenny, can never disguise herself
in the paintings. She’s a livid soul. The Maryland sticks I refuse to
comment on much, except to say that, to paraphrase Jeremy, even
their minor accomplishments are overshadowed by their utter anonymity. So,
I went around like Michelangelo’s David (a bumbling oaf, sort of,
as Mary saw it), fucking everything in sight, and I fucked her
and fucked her again— as a blonde, a brunette. I was to miss her in
representative tawny form, because that was the most real, right?
A dumb oaf like me is righteous material as a sitter but to be avoided
as a husband. Mary proved that. Or did she? Diana just wanted to be
the Jenny to show up, surprise everyone and cause trouble. Just like
all those lovely tarantulas she so admired. There is no Michelangelo’s
Tarantula, but that’s the whole point. Mary’s idealism, and handy
camera, gutter-ball into Kanzler’s shadows, and eternal vacancy. So be it.
© Adam Fieled 2026
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