Sunday, December 6, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
If you should decide to read this entry:
Keeping this window open, open a new internet window and look on MySpace music for the song “I’ll Follow The Sun” by the Beatles. Play it. Read from this point on.
A record spins in its player. Newspapers surround the antique looking apparatus in the warmly lit apartment. The wood blinds are slatted open and the orange setting sun shines through, leaving a sequence of bright and dark linear patterns on the wood flooring.
The walls are bare and dirty in places his hand prints had polluted in all the common places he would lean while talking to her after a hard day at work. A box populates the open floors that she stands on. She looks around her at the picture frames and packing materials on the floor. A picture of the two of them in a sweet embrace, some old love notes and movie tickets from various dates surround her. She looks at her hand, the mark of the ring still present on her finger. She runs that empty hand through her hair, exhaling in bereavement.
She walks into the hall between the bedroom and the bathroom. A bare mattress stares her in the face. She freezes for a moment to confront it, then continues into the small restroom. No towels inhabiting the rack and no shower curtain upon the rod. She opens the medicine cabinet she already knows is empty, looking herself in the eye as she does. It’s spotless. “And now the time has come/and so, my love, I must go” the song echoes her heart. As she closes the cabinet, she has a slight grin upon her face, though a tear kisses her cheek.
With a last look around, she realizes that what she is looking for is not going to be found in any cabinet or upon any wall of the apartment. It was gone and no matter how long she searched, the answer would not be found. She returns to the living room, unplugging the record player and placing it, the last of the pictures, and the unused newspaper a into the empty box on the floor. A dispenser of khaki packing tape runs over the top of a crisp new box and seals it. She leaves the gold key on the lit up and otherwise cheery window ledge, and the somehow-romantic image stays imprinted in her memory. She reaches towards the front door.
“…And though I lose a friend/ In the end you will know/ Oh/ One day you’ll find/ That I have gone/ But tomorrow may rain so/ I’ll follow the sun” the song finishes in her mind. She turns the bottom lock for the last time and closes the door behind her. With the crisp crunch of the door setting sturdily between it’s frame, everything has ended. Her dragging footsteps are heard as she walks reluctantly down the concrete stairs and through the gate of the courtyard with a grin on her face.
Life isn’t ending. It has just begun.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Out comes the jelly sandal. Colorless, in pink, in turquoise, clear or opaque. And I was in love; especially with the clear and colorless ones that shimmered in the sun with their glitter. I loved every aspect of those shoes. I remember observing that I could feel the warmth or the chill of the ground beneath my feel so well in these shoes. I enjoyed stepping from the sidewalk to the black top in the shoes and observing the changes. When not wearing the shoes, I'd stare at them and observe the edges of the plastic. Sometimes there would be a piece I could peel off between one of the many holes in its body. I even loved the feel of the shoe as it would become wet with the perspiration from the bottoms of my feet on a hot day. Sometimes dirt would clump in them and I loved to clean them out. I had a great affinity for those shoes and missed them greatly in the periods of time when they would fade out of popularity and would cease to be manufactured.
Throughout my life I have watched for jellies. The most recent pair that I purchased was from Urban Outfitters and saw about 4 outings on the town before the plastic began to fall away and deteriorate. As I was packing to move very suddenly out of my apartment with my former fiance, I threw those out. They had always looked dirty to me, but they were the closest I could get to my glass slipper. I have missed them ever since, thinking about where I might be able to find a new pair.
And then today I was shoe shopping. No shoes had particularly hooked me and I was on my way out when I stumbled upon--what else?--Jelly flats. From afar they looked like beaded shoes. They glistened in the light of the store. As I came closer, I realized their true identity and the first thought in my mind was "It's a glass slipper!". As old as I am I still associate them with feeling like a princess. I nearly walked away from them but my mom talked me into having a second look. They were, after all, Steve Maddens, and they were, after all, only twenty bucks. I walked back with a hop in my step "I'm going to get some glass slippers!" I could hear my inner-child chant.
As I approached them I had such affinity for them. These were not the typical "glass slipper" jelly flats. I observed them the way I had as a child. The sparkle was not in a glitter piece inside of the plastic. Rather the gel glistened beautifully itself because of it's facets, cut like glass or a fine diamond. Instead of the geometric and evenly distributed connections in a connect-the-dot pattern on the typical jelly, there was an intricate and messy webwork of smaller strings and holes. No plastic to punch out. Just perfection.
And it occured to me that a shattered glass slipper is exactly where I am in life. I had entrusted my metaphorical slipper to my so-called Prince Charming. I felt his insecurity in holding it and yet I turned my back to it. I so wanted to trust him with that prized posession. I felt him quiver, and still I only glanced over my shoulder until I heard it shatter; felt it shatter. And as I turned and knelt to pick up the pieces, he walked away. But there I still remained. Picking up the pieces one by one. Discovering with every sliver, who I am. Who I want to be. Who I had become.
These are all pieces of me. An intricate webwork of a human being. And these are my shoes. For the most part, they depict me. Shattered, but somehow put together. Quality. Glimmer. Detail. Reflection. Present-time. Fun. Playful. Flexible. Confident, and most of all, looking for an adventure in this new opportunity.
And just like my shoes, I too will eventually belong to someone who adores me for all that I am.