| shades of green |
[24 Jun 2005|09:20pm] |
Why do we choose certain moments to spin into memories? The waitress in LA, her southern voice like syrup dripping from her lips, forming lazily into words that she leaves others to separate for her. An infant's cry. The scent of freshly mown grass. The exact color of your eyes. Song lyrics, childhood poetry, pushed aside to make room for the color of your eyes. Why is it always more memorable, the words we don't say?
The click of her heels on the sidewalk, even above the chaos of the city, completing the symphony of urban decay. She moves swiftly, eyes ahead. She's not looking at you. You are only part of the landscape to her, blending into the metropolis. She is not interested in your humanity. She finds pleasure in the endless square boxes of wearable eye-candy. She turns her words into wampum, trading currency for couture, a benign enough inclination in terms of addiction. Money is dirty, used, promiscuous. Frocks and feathers take its place, making her feel virtuous again. What if humans were born with labels like accoutrement? What would her label read?
Through her memory, the discount racks of the unwanted, unsatisfactory, unseemly, and unsuited. Her discriminating taste becomes the fall for many tarnished treasures, bangles that began to turn her delicate fingers jealous shades of green. And yet, oh how they sparkled when under just the right illumination. Street vendors invest far more in lighting than Saks on 5th. To fool the pretentious, the proletariat must be misleading.
The sidewalk fades into a memory. Bathed in fluorescent light, a shimmering sea of validity awaits her, but all she really wants is to feel is unbroken, unconcerned, unscathed, and unstirred by the vagrants and ghetto slum.
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