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Saturday, March 23, 2013

Street Smart Heart.


Farm Fresh and Elegiac

I have morphed into ...."Aunt Clara, doorknob collector with a Cross."
I am not sure when this happened:
Perhaps somewhere between more despairing news of the latest
Gang rape on public transit in India,
(Midst scenic wonderment, and awe at History and Age, in culture and visual, scenic architectural progress - which ruined the pleasure for someone expecting girly-worldy acceptance, presumably)
...and my despair at being relegated, in secret bursts at work, to
Comfortable shoes, at last. At least Doc Martins made us look cool, despite the absence-of-Mennonite
Sympathies shouting that we must be gay for the practicality, knowing we risked ice on the steps again, teetering wildly, without a little touch of Army, and grit-teethed and grim, settled for the punishment of
Asexual fashion accusation, firm-soled and vertebrae intact.
Even George Clooney said he hated that version of "shoe jamming" - and I, for one, believed his chakra empathy.
(This is a suave, gloved, quiet side of him that looks momentarily pained at inflicted humiliation, regardless of the recipient, and I decide I like this unclown-in-clown. It reminds me of closed velvet, and musing.)
I look at these polished and presuming Men, these developed psyches of sensivity and ordered chaos, beneath the thinning vulnerability of leonine alpha-isms, with affection, knowing that glow emanating from my
Other self, my Own Self - different, and less smarting, than my Owned Beingness, Lightness or No - lights
Nothing but
Inspiration, now, perhaps, in svelte exchanges of paint-perfect and sway swing, bowing. It is enough, waning and whispering, and muttering against the Passage of Time.
This is different, and relaxed, juxtaposed against the public transit obscenity, paining my awareness of regression, after years of work, and I forgive the requirement for perfection. The world, after all, demands it. I consider the idea that I might be an acquired nonsparkling, fortified wine sailing smoothly into Malbec and Merlot, unapologetically. My cheeks even tingle in the cold air, and bloom impossible roses, defying the near-50 precipice on which I find myself, veering precariously between forgotten sensibility, and a whiff of Aramis.

Paco Rabanne, ribold and refreshed, seems inappropriate, here. The spice wins, quietly jubilant, and,
unscathed and steady, I walk through the evening mist, shrouded by a brilliant scarf, and humming.

That I am alone with my memories, spit- swear fierce, still, amidst the faces and changes and loves and discoveries I watch, unobtrusively, from the netherworld of the "unpresent", lyre-stroked and searching, is simply
A spur.   I realize I have lost 17 pounds, absentmindedly, amidst the
Overwork, startled at my re-emerging breasts and shrinking hips.
I am annoyed, liking the
Plump Plumb nomenclature, askance at the
Rickets and Picky petulance of "not myself, apparently", threatening to
Intrude and attempt
I wish they'd stick to their sticks, do their damned jobs, and
Guard my tomatoes, dammit. 
There are world sites to see, unmolested and cash-strewing,
as  a hunger for life, love, and snapshot eyes of yesteryear
Attempt to save the World, and its forgotten.