it's strange to be out of synch she was British and the role was an American one but circumstance let her star it's strange to have thoughts that don't seem to connect some call it depression she just knew that her reality was strung somewhere between a red tag and a white tag it's strange to feel that home may have begun in India but then glitzy love and promises planted a pseudo home in filmy countryside and staged rooms the kind that never lasts it's strange to see the mask of all I was gone with the wind
I'm ready nicely healed black boots nicely billowing black skirt nicely fitting black top and bell sleeves tokens of my city life my high value of style in motion however I'm ready for the next stage I think my sensible black hat over sensible plaits suggest that this is more a business journey rather than pleasure and indeed you are so right I am on my way to a funeral out in my childhood prairie country the one I escaped the one I ignored the one that was so meaningless to me then but now my funeral calls me back to face old demons and old values and maybe find a few angels or two however as you can clearly see I missed my train
Bathers (1950) by George Tooker Magpie Tales #277 on my way to some fragile nirvana (fragile because it was just a desperate quirk of my mind) I found the scents of the sea strangely I expected to be alone wanted to be alone but there were others just like me at least some were (ahem... two were) they stood towelled and capped in some frozen expectation of an instruction (perhaps a command) to move forward like handmaids going through the predictions of a tale I sidled in line unaware of another door where one sculpted body appeared to be casually drying herself unaware that my entrance and her exit were zagged mirrored underbelly opposites but I stood in tight-lipped silence until a dark moment turned my silence into fear of being closely watched closely monitored
Linking to; Magpie Tales
